Bad Faith
by Jad fic
Summary: Four years after Dumbledore's death, Draco Malfoy shows up at No. 12, Grimmauld Place looking for Harry Potter—who has to learn that sometimes you don't put up walls to keep other people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down. AU after HBP.
1. Prologue: Pride and Purpose

**WARNINGS**: There is no explicit "non-con/rape/torture" in this part of the series, but they are implied/hinted at; this is a war!fic and Death Eaters are not nice people. Consider yourselves warned - this fic may contain triggers.

**Additional Warnings**: THIS WORK IS PART OF A SERIES - this is the first, and complete. This installment contains strong language, sexual content, violence/torture, murder, dark themes, implied/off-stage rape, kidnapping, minor character deaths, and a cliffhanger.

* * *

Prologue  
Pride and Purpose

_Nearly all men can stand adversity;  
if you want to test a man's true character, give him power._  
- Abraham Lincoln

: : :

Lucius Malfoy was not an easy man to break.

He knew this, and Voldemort knew this. He wasn't an easy man to find, either, especially when he didn't want to be found. Having a net worth of seven hundred million Galleons tended to help with that sort of thing.

Lucius was a man of devious intent and vast influence. He had wanted to be powerful, and therefore, he was. He wanted to be wealthier, and so he had become filthy rich. He wanted to help ensure the survival of pure-blood lineage, and that was the primary reason he joined the side of the Dark Lord. And then, for the first time in his life, Lucius discovered what it felt like to have someone like himself have power over him, and he did not enjoy it. He had become a Death Eater to gain more power, not to surrender it and all of his dignity for another man's supremacy.

But as a powerful man, he was also flawed. Great men cared for power and nothing else; everything besides their personal interests is secondary. Lucius fooled himself into believing that he fulfilled this criterion for a while, even after being married to Narcissa for many years. Even when she informed him that _finally_ she was pregnant, that this time the doctor had told her it was a healthy baby, and her chances of a miscarriage were slim, he still had himself convinced that it was secondary, and that Lucius Malfoy and his agenda was priority number one.

All of this came crashing down around him when the nurse plopped a small lump of blankets that turned out to be his son, into his arms.

It took Lucius about seven years to come to grips with this thing he refrained from referring to as 'love' that he felt for his son. The resemblance was striking. Draco looked just like him, everyone said so, and he was rapidly acquiring the same tone and vocabulary. On Draco's ninth birthday, Lucius gave him his first family heirloom, an ornate ring, _the key_, made of silver with the family crest on it. Draco had to wear it on a chain around his neck, because his fingers were still too small for it to fit.

Later, Draco had looked hopefully up at his father and asked, 'Does this make me a real Malfoy now?'

Lucius had smiled down at him. 'And don't let anyone ever take that away from you.'

In most cases, Draco had continued to live up to his expectations since then, although Lucius very rarely acknowledged it. He knew the only way for his son to succeed was to constantly believe he had failed, so he would always strive to do better. Narcissa told him once that he would regret not recognising his son's accomplishments more often, and Lucius responded by telling her that that was her job.

Still, he (for lack of a better word) loved his son very much. Whether it was purely paternal or for his own, selfish interests was unimportant; either way, the fact remained that he cared for his son. This wouldn't have caused any difficulties if Voldemort hadn't decided he'd had enough of the quiet life and sprung back into action when Draco was about to turn fifteen. Now, Lucius had a weakness. His son was both his heir and a liability, and the Dark Lord knew it.

Azkaban had been a bit inconvenient, but not intolerable now that the Dementors were gone. Not quite a year inside and Avery had managed to get his hands on a wand and, well it was a very messy evening, to say the least, and Lucius had embraced freedom once more.

And then, not three days later, Severus delivered Draco to his father because he had been unable to kill Dumbledore, as was his duty. It was then that Lucius decided once and for all that he was tired of having to worry about liabilities. He had also tried very hard to ignore the fact that it was his son who was clinging to his robes like that, shaking and pale, looking weak and defeated as no Malfoy should ever have allowed himself to look.

Draco had said to him, 'I just couldn't do it, father. I'm sorry.'

Lucius had shaken him very hard by the shoulders, telling him very firmly that he had failed only himself, and that he had no more obligation to the Dark Lord than he did to Harry Potter. Draco had stopped crying immediately, and this had calmed Lucius's temper quite a bit. It was in a much calmer manner that he explained to his son that Voldemort was going to kill the lot of them anyway, whether he had succeeded in killing Dumbledore or not; failing to do so just sped the process up.

Hiding Draco and Narcissa had been easy enough, as the Malfoy Manor was already Unplottable, but on top of that, the bond of blood Lucius made with his son made the Manor a safe haven for them both as long as Lucius was alive. Complicated though the spell was, Lucius was capable of far more powerful magic and had sealed it with ease. The hard part was going to be keeping himself alive, to ensure it stayed in place. Even without the blood bond, the Manor was strongly protected even the best in the Ministry would find it near impossible to disarm. Unfortunately, the Dark Lord was more than capable of dealing with the darkest, most ancient of magic, so once the bond was destroyed there would be very little keeping him out.

Lucius had expected to avoid him just long enough to give Draco time to prepare. A couple months, maybe a year if they were lucky.

It took almost four years for Voldemort to finally catch up to Lucius, and frankly, Lucius was very disappointed.

: : :

Voldemort was not an easy man to fool.

He knew this, and Lucius Malfoy knew this. He wasn't an easy man to hide from, either, especially when he particularly wanted to find somebody. Being the most powerful wizard alive helped him quite a bit in accomplishing this sort of thing.

That's why Lucius knew he couldn't run forever, and knew that no matter how solid his resolve, the Dark Lord would suck the information out of him.

What Voldemort failed to understand was why it had come to this with Lucius. He had been such a _handy_ little follower, with all of his inside contacts and vast amount of resources. And he had produced an even handier heir, who was shaping up to be a rather promising servant himself, even if he was a bit of a coward. After all, Wormtail was the most cowardly creature Voldemort had ever had the misfortune of meeting, and look how useful he turned out to it was the inbreeding. The dwindling gene pool purebloods had to choose from these days was beginning to affect their intelligence. This resolution was only further enforced when Lucius actually tried to make a run for it. Oh, he got a very good head start, and Voldemort had to appreciate just how annoyingly slippery the man was when he wanted to be. Plus, what with world domination on his agenda, Voldemort had very little free time to track down defective supporters, so it wasn't surprising that Lucius got away with it for as long as he did.

Voldemort tried to look at it from a brighter point of view, concluding that, as the Malfoy family had evaded destruction for so long, they had surely formed a false sense of security, and therefore his revenge would be even sweeter.

To say the least, Voldemort was very disappointed.

Lucius managed to keep his pride despite the circumstances. He sat there, smoking, and looking extremely obnoxious and dignified for a man who was about to be ripped limb from limb by a bloodthirsty werewolf.

It was disturbing, to say the least, to have the twenty-something face of Tom Riddle turn around and glare at you. The Dark Lord had been so snake-like, so _inhuman_ when he'd first emerged five years ago that Lucius could have sworn that the damage was irreversible. Now, a young man stared at him from across the room, with black hair, handsome features and dark, dangerous eyes.

Fenrir growled hungrily at him, and Lucius gave him a pained look. 'Save it, furball, you'll get your turn.'

'I'm disappointed in you, Lucius,' Voldemort admitted finally, ignoring Greyback, who was beginning to foam at the mouth. 'I take no pleasure in this. It is your own doing, in the end.'

Lucius tapped his cigarette and sneered. 'What else is new?'

'It's really such a shame to see another pureblood line come to an early end,' Voldemort continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. He gave the werewolf a look of mock regret, 'Don't you agree, Fenrir?' And with a flick of his wand, he removed the Body-Bind that held the animal down.

Lucius silently congratulated himself on making it this far and hoped to Hell that Draco would have better luck than he had.

: : :

_What assurances do I have that your parenting isn't screwing me up?_  
- Calvin and Hobbes

: : :

When Draco first turned sixteen, he made a vow to himself that he would not reach seventeen as a virgin. Looking back at this on his twenty-first birthday, he decided that, with this rather juvenile resolution, he must have jinxed himself somehow, and he continued to mope about it for the remainder of the month. He began to wonder whether it was worth sneaking out of the house and risking the wrath of the Dark Lord in order to remedy his virginal status; indeed, he was almost obsessed with the thought until the evening his father's Valaetas went out.

The Malfoy Valaetas was one of the many family heirlooms that the Manor housed. It was a simple device; a small, clear glass sphere within which a flame representing the life of the current patriarch was suspended. If the subject was happy and in good health, the large flame would burn brightly; if the subject was ill, the flame would be smaller, and if they were in mortal danger, it would flicker. For past several years, Lucius Malfoy's flame had fluctuated between the three. And then that night, when the weather had been particularly violent outside the Manor, it had flickered dangerously before disappearing in a wisp of smoke.

Reality had smacked Draco in the face that night he could not believe that something as trivial as getting laid had somehow managed to overshadow the much more important issue of 'Fuck, now what?'

This is so typical of my life, Draco thought savagely. Leave it to fate to produce him with such an ironic and humiliating situation die at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or seek salvation from the one person in the world he could never ask for help.

_Go to Potter._ The urgent words echoed in his head, overlapping to the point that he couldn't hear himself think anymore. _Nobody else. You have to go to Potter._

Well, fuck that, said his pride.

You really don't have any other choice, his logic pointed out.

Draco told the voices in his head to shut the bloody hell up so he could think. What he really needed was a third option, even if it meant forfeiting the family fortune and committing himself to the life of a monk, or something; _anything_ he needed another choice. Unfortunately, despite how long he thought about it, he couldn't find a way out. All he had was the door to Certain Doom, and the door to Harry Potter.

The Malfoy family had to be cursed, he decided, and this was proof. No matter what Draco did or how hard he tried, reality continued to ruin his life.

'Draco? Darling, you look terrible, are you sure you're all right?'

'Mum, don't.' Draco's fingers laced together, squeezing so hard his knuckles turned white.

His mother was sitting across from him on the loveseat, stroking the long white fur of her Maine Coon, who stared reproachfully at him with her mismatched eyes. This was what his mother tended to do when she was nervous, something that had become a habit over the past few months. Narcissa also had grown a lot thinner recently, and Draco had been alarmed to see that age was beginning to affect her.

They couldn't go on like this. It couldn't even be considered living.

Maybe he could smuggle them out of the Manor they had property in several different countries they could use. The flat in Greece, the house in Venice they could go to that bungalow in Port Elizabeth if they had to. They could even buy new property somewhere else, somewhere _He_ wouldn't know about, somewhere far away from this place where they could just pretend there was no war, that they had nothing to do with the bloody mess .

All of this was wishful thinking, though, and not productive, so he pushed it out of his mind. He knew what he had to do, what he was going to do; he just had to get up and _do_ _it_.

Easier said than done, he soon realized, as his willpower to move was surprisingly lacking. His pride and logic still seemed to be locked in a furious battle over his body mechanics, because he tried to stand up and sit down at the same time, and ended up slamming his fists back down on the coffee table, causing the cat to hiss and jump out of his mother's lap.

'Sweetheart, you don't have to do this if you don't want to,' she said sympathetically, leaning over and putting her hand on his shoulder. 'We'll be fine for a while; the magic is old, and very strong, even your father didn't understand the full extent of its power. We could be safe here for quite some time.'

'That's not the _point,_' he told her. 'I promised '

'You promised to take care of us,' she told him sharply. 'And, to be honest, I don't see what good this will do. It will just expose us, take us away from here ; they can't protect us any better than Lucius did.'

'_I am not going to spend my life hiding!_' Draco stood up so quickly his chair crashed to the floor. Nivens instantly appeared and righted the chair, causing Draco to snarl and knock it over again on purpose. The house-elf squeaked and vanished as quickly as he'd come. 'I am _tired_ of sitting around in this house just waiting for it!'

His mother regarded him quietly with a very severe look that instantly made him feel guilty for shouting. She stood up after a moment and walked around the table, and hugged him from behind. He went limp in her arms, suddenly feeling very tired.

'I have to do this. I have to do _something_. '

'I know,' she said gently.

'And if they take me, you'll still be here; you'll be fine until I can figure something else out. I'll I'll work it out, I promise.' He sounded less like he was reassuring her than himself. 'I won't leave you here.'

'I have faith in you,' she said and gave him a small squeeze. 'Please don't fret, darling.'

Draco eventually said goodbye to his mother and gathered his wand and cloak before going outside. He would have to walk outside the protective perimeter before he'd be able to Apparate. Passing the gardens and the paddock, he watched the wind pushing the long grass back towards home, pushing against him, as if trying to keep him in. The horses were restless, galloping back and forth along the length of the fence, lifting their heads high and neighing loudly. Thunder rumbled overhead and they knew the rain was coming.

The large, black gates that marked the entrance to the property grew steadily closer as he trudged on, opening silently as he reached them, releasing him from the safety of their bounds. He reached into his cloak retrieved a small, sealed leather pouch, and ran his wand along its edge, unlocking the magic that had kept it secret for so long. Pulling out the fragment of parchment, he read the narrow handwriting carefully, memorizing what it said quickly before it erupted in flames and the ashes blew away with the wind.

He took one last look at the Manor, glowing luminously in the darkness, before taking a heavy breath and disappearing with a snap.

: : :

About seventy miles away, Remus Lupin was sleeping off his special monthly hangover. The whole ordeal was tiresome, really, and he would have _really_ liked to finish sleeping it off, but the knocking on the door just became louder and louder until it woke up the portrait of Mrs. Black. Very, very stiffly, he moved out into the hall and padded down the stairs to slam her curtains shut, all the while really wishing that the whole werewolf-phobia would kick in for whomever was on the other side of the door.

After all, Remus was used to being avoided. He would go as far as to say that he had accepted it. What really irked him was the way people insisted on feeling sorry for him anyway. He liked to think he gave people a lot of slack, especially those he considered his friends. But for some reason most of the people he knew seemed to think he wanted their sympathy, as if a lifetime of feeling sorry for himself hadn't made him get over it.

Yes, he was a werewolf. Yes, all of his best friends were dead. Yes, he was cursed with an eternity of being the outcast of society. So what he wanted what he actually _wanted_ was company, not sympathy. Because frankly, he was sick of the pity; it was starting to piss him off.

When he opened the door, he had planned to tell Tonks that he didn't need her there if she was just going to make him feel guilty about it later namely, by crying to Molly about how hard it was to deal with someone you loved when they turned into a rampaging beast of blood and death once a month. He also intended to tell her that all females were inherently werewolves anyway, only instead of growing hairy and bleeding others, they grew irritable and bled themselves.

It took him a few seconds to realise that the person outside his door was not Tonks after all, unless she had grown a lot blonder and paler since the last time he saw her.

'Morning, Professor,' the young man said cheerfully. 'Potter wouldn't happen to be around, would he?'

Unsure of what to say, Remus just settled for gaping, because he had no idea how else to deal with a very desperate-looking Draco Malfoy on the doorstep of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

Thirty minutes and three cups of coffee later, Draco had told him the summary of everything that had happened; the bond of blood, the death of his father, the wrath of the Dark Lord and all that jazz.

Remus listened to his story through to its completion. He wasn't afraid of Draco, he was more concerned about how he had managed to find out where Headquarters were. After all, if this were an ambush, he'd be dead already. Plus, if he called in the Ministry, they would probably have chucked the boy in Azkaban so fast he'd never get to hear the explanation. And damn it all, he was curious.

'So as you can imagine,' Draco said finally, 'I couldn't stay there for long. The only other place he can't find me is here.'

Remus voiced his curiosity regarding how he had managed to find them, and Draco gave him a very tired sort of look and said, 'Dumbledore, of course.'

'Dumbledore's dead,' Remus told him.

'Catching up with current events, are you?' Somehow, being on the run from You-Know-Who didn't keep Malfoys from retaining at least a part of their superiority complex. 'He gave it to Snape to pass on to me, should I ever need it. I hadn't even looked at it until this morning.'

Remus had decided that this was a satisfactory explanation, and since Draco had already proven he was able to infiltrate Headquarters, it really didn't matter how, only that he could. Luckily, as Dumbledore had died the Secret-Keeper, Draco wouldn't be able to tell anyone _else_ where the Headquarters was located, only access it himself.

As it turned out, Draco not only believed that he was safe at Grimmauld Place, but was terrified at the thought of turning himself in. As far as he knew, he'd earned a death sentence from the Ministry of Magic and was in no hurry to die in his prime, thank you very much. Remus decided that the best thing now would be to summon Arthur Weasley, as he was sure that he would know what to do.

Draco was horrified at the idea.

'A _Weasley,_' he exclaimed. 'You might as well feed me to a Hippogriff! I'm trying to get _off_ the hook, not do myself in!'

It took a lot of convincing (and a fair bit of Firewhisky in Draco's coffee) to calm him down enough to explain that Arthur was, in fact, a very reasonable and fair man and Remus was sure that he would have Draco's best interests at heart and do whatever he could to help. Draco tried to point out that this logic was flawed as Arthur had brutally assaulted his father in Flourish & Blotts some years ago and was bound to be just a little upset about that near-death-by-snake-bite incident, but Remus assured him he was just being paranoid.

'That's why I'm still alive!' Draco informed him, and topped up his coffee with more whisky.

Arthur Weasley arrived on the scene, and Remus filled him in while Draco filled himself with more Firewhisky. Arthur took it rather well, and asked Draco if he could have some.

'You may,' Draco told him sternly, 'if you promise me that if I go to prison, I get conjugal visits and a private bath.' This made Arthur laugh, which seemed to make Draco feel at least marginally better.

Overall, it had been the most exciting morning Remus had had in quite a while, and he invited Draco to come back any time he wished, provided the Ministry didn't throw him in Azkaban.

: : :


	2. Chapter One: Sins of the Father

**A/N**: Also a re-post, due to FFnet being run by nothing but robots. Updated, as well.

Chapter One  
**Sins of the Father**

_I've got no defence,  
I've got no attack.  
I can't leave, I can't stay,  
And I've got no way back._  
- Johnny Clegg

: : :

It was a very dark and stormy night that Draco Malfoy surrendered himself to the Ministry.

He had apologised about the weather, because he was sincerely trying to make the whole situation as anticlimactic as possible.

Lucius Malfoy's body had been recovered only the day before. It hadn't been a very clean kill, if Harry remembered the details correctly, much nastier than the typical Killing Curse. And then Draco had appeared on the Ministry doorstep almost twelve hours later and was immediately arrested and detained by Aurors. Harry himself had not been present, but home and quite happily asleep. He came to work the following morning to find the office in an uproar.

It appeared that Draco wasn't just handing himself over for a life sentence in Azkaban. In fact, according to the memo Kingsley Shacklebolt had stapled to the walls of all the Auror cubicles, Draco had produced some very good lawyers and was determined to strike a deal trading information on the Dark Lord and his followers.

Unsurprisingly, the Minister was having a very hard time getting the office to quieten.

'This is outrageous,' Kingsley said to Harry as he took off his cloak. 'Robards hasn't let anyone in since Malfoy summoned his bloody attorneys.'

Harry craned his neck and managed a glance at the office containing Draco. The glass was frosted but he could make out several dark-coloured blobs behind the door. 'He can't honestly think we're going to let Malfoy off,' Harry said to Kingsley.

'I wouldn't bet on anything yet. Apparently Malfoy has some juicy information.'

'I bet.' Harry scowled and moved closer, squeezing his way past the mob of muttering Aurors.

Gawain Robards, current Head of office, and Arthur Weasley, now an Auror himself, were both whispering frantically in the Minister's ear. Harry remembered when Arthur had accepted his promotion, which he did only under the condition that he was in charge of all cases to do with the mistreatment of Muggles. With Voldemort on the loose, this ended up being quite a lot of cases, and Mr Weasley had quickly become one of the more important members of the Auror Squad.

Robards spotted Harry approaching and beckoned him forward, moving him and Arthur away from Scrimgeour. 'Potter! About bloody time. Here, have some coffee,' a Styrofoam cup was shoved into his hands. Robards looked around to make sure no one else was listening in, lowering his voice to the point that Harry had to strain to hear him. 'Malfoy has demanded to speak to you privately, before his attorneys will let him say another word.'

Harry stared at him. 'Well then I guess he's taken a vow of silence, because he can get stuffed.'

'Dammit, Potter.' Robards took Harry by the arm as he attempted to leave. 'He's unarmed and you'll have the entire Auror department outside the door. I know you two have some ugly history, but he's already turned over some valuable information and I would really like to hear the rest of it. Swallow your pride and find out what the hell he wants.'

Arthur seemed to decide it was appropriate to say something, and added, 'Harry, maybe you should just see what he has to say.' He topped it off with a sincerely sympathetic look.

Harry leaned back against the wall and let his head knock against it a few times. Robards had let his arm go, but wasn't through with him yet.

'Just ten minutes of your time, Potter, that's all I ask.'

'Five,' Harry said, removing his wand from the pocket of his robes to unlock the office door. 'But if he gives me any crap, I won't be using my wand to knock him out.'

: : :

_Draco would not have killed Dumbledore._  
- JKR, Leaky Cauldron 2005

: : :

'What if he doesn't talk to you?'

Ricardo Valestute was one of the Malfoy family's many attorneys, and one who had defended Lucius originally when he had been charged for helping the Dark Lord twenty years ago. Draco's mother had insisted on hiring him once more.

'Don't worry, he will.'

'From what I understand, he's never been very fond of you.'

'Feeling's mutual.'

'So how do you know that he'll speak with you?'

'Because he was a Gryffindor,' Draco said. 'Trust me.'

Draco winced when the door slammed open. Harry had his arms crossed and looked rather sour, and Robards gave him a sharp nudge from behind into the room.

'If the rest of you would come with me please.' Arthur motioned to the three lawyers Draco had with him. They all looked at their client, and Ricardo in particular looked as if he'd prefer to stay, but Draco waved them away. Arthur escorted them from the room quickly, leaving Harry alone with Draco Malfoy for the first time in four years.

Harry took a very long, hard look at the man before him. He had to admit, Draco was not what he had been expecting. Sure, he still looked like Malfoy; tall, blonde, nasty and sharp featured, but instead of smirking as Harry so often remembered him, he was frowning and avoiding Harry's eyes. His hair was longer than Harry remembered, too, and with his head tilted down it allowed his long fringe to brush the line of his jaw, shadowing his eyes from Harry's view. He was dressed in plain but elegant black robes with silver fastenings, and black polished boots were poking out from underneath his cloak. His skin was a more deathly pale than Harry could ever remember seeing, as if he had been kept out of the sunlight for far too long. Long-fingered hands gripped the edge of the table Draco was leaning against before he finally let go and stood up straight. Harry felt a small surge of indignation at the realisation that Draco had somehow managed to remain the exact same height as he had, even after all these years.

Having said that, the very last time he had seen Draco, he had been running across the grass outside Hogwarts with Snape, who had killed Dumbledore just a few minutes earlier. This did not help endear him to Harry, no matter how desperate the prick may have been looking.

'You have five minutes, Malfoy.'

'Then I'll get right to the point.' Draco finally looked up, and Harry's gaze was met with familiar, stormy-grey eyes. 'I want your help.'

Harry shook his head; he had just experienced an auditory hallucination. 'You what?'

'I want to join your fan club,' Draco said, rolling his eyes. 'I want your _help_, Potter.'

Harry scowled. 'Why should I give a damn what you want?'

'Because I have something _you_ want,' Draco said, putting his hands in his pockets. 'And we share priorities.'

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'Do you know why my father's dead?'

'Don't care,' Harry said coolly.

'Of course you don't,' Draco said. 'My father died protecting my mother and me, as hard as it may be for you to believe. I'm surprised we managed to hide for as long as we did, and now I'm stuck between a Bludger and a hard place. Between going to you or You-Know-Who, I figured you, at least, would hear me out before hexing me into oblivion.'

'Do you expect me to feel sorry for you?'

'Not at all. I don't, however, intend to die anytime soon. Which is where you come in.'

'What does that have to do with me? I want to kill you as much as Voldemort does, trust me.'

Draco winced slightly at the name, but continued without losing a beat. 'You're only the most highly protected wizard of all time,' he proclaimed, rolling his eyes. 'Not to mention the only person alive that's seen, defied, escaped and defeated the Dark Lord—what? Four, or is it five times now?'

'I don't see your point.'

'How in hell did he ever pass his N.E.W.T.s?' Draco asked the ceiling, and then gave Harry an impatient sort of look. 'What I want from you is a covenant.'

Harry didn't even register the insult. Malfoy wanted a deal? With him?

'You've got some nerve,' Harry spat. He turned and started towards the door.

'I know where one of the Horcruxes is,' Draco said quietly.

Harry froze mid-step, his heart skipping a beat. 'How—'

'Snape,' Draco answered simply, then continued quickly, getting it all out in a rush. 'I also know where a lot of his followers tend to congregate—their homes, safe houses, patterns, who's fucking who over and what for. Fuck's sake, Potter, I could even tell you the brands of robes he wears.'

Harry let go of the doorknob and turned back to face the blonde. 'Why me? There are plenty of other alternatives for Ministry protection. In case you forgot, I'm one of his prime targets. You'd be about as safe with me as you would be covered in sheep's blood in the Forbidden Forest.'

'Oh, don't worry, I know all about my alternatives,' Draco said bitterly, sitting on the edge of the table and putting his hands on his thighs. 'And I have no desire to sit in a cell, no matter what they want to call it.'

'You practically have for the past four years. Why the change in heart?'

'Because I can't help you kill that son of a bitch as a prisoner, idiot.'

Harry actually laughed. 'Sorry if I find that a little hard to believe, coming from the one who tried to kill Dumbledore.'

Draco recoiled at the use of the name again. 'Well, believe it. I loved my father, Potter,' he said seriously, his eyes narrowing. 'Just because you've never known the love of a parent doesn't excuse you from acknowledging some of us are capable of it.'

'Fuck you—'

'I did what I did because if I hadn't, he would have _killed_ my parents. I can't imagine you know what that feels like, since yours were dead from the beginning. But what would you have done if it had been your precious Weasley and his lovebird Muggle on the table?'

'I would have fought!'

'Exactly!' Draco pushed himself off the table and closed the distance between them, and stuck his finger at Harry's chest. 'Because _you could_. Do you know what he would have done to me if I had refused him? To defy You-Know-Who would have been a death sentence to my entire family. Well _fuck_ that, Potter. Nobody was worth that to me, not even Dumbledore.'

Harry stared at him for a long moment, and resisted with difficulty the urge to call him a coward. After all, some of it made sense. He just hadn't let himself think of it that way before. It had always been much easier on his mind to assume Malfoy was just, well, _evil_. He backed away from Draco, turning his face back towards the frosted glass of the door.

'If I agreed,' Harry said finally, 'what then?'

He heard Draco expel a breath. 'Well, first, I go on trial. If I get off—_if_ being the key word, mind you—then I tell you whatever I can. And you get a Horcrux.'

'And if you don't get off?'

'Well, the plan is for that not to require an answer, you see,' Draco said.

'And what do you think they're going to do?' Harry demanded, wheeling around. 'Forgive you and say, "It's okay that you tried kill Dumbledore, why don't you hang out with Harry Potter, we don't think you're trying to do him in, or anything—'''

'No,' Draco said, interrupting him. He stared at Harry for a moment, looking rather hesitant. Then he looked at the floor again. 'Not unless you testify on my behalf.'

Harry stared at him. 'Testify. For _you_,' he spat. 'I take it back, you don't have nerve, you're insane. If you think for one minute that I'm going defend you after what you did—'

'And what, exactly, am I guilty of?' snarled Draco. 'Except trying to protect my family?'

'_You let Death Eaters into a school!_' shouted Harry, furious now. 'And a _werewolf_ on top of that! Do you have any idea what happened that night? Who got hurt?' Images of seeing Bill Weasley, recently mauled by Greyback, sitting in the hospital wing flashed through his mind, and he shoved Draco backwards, hard. 'You destroyed people's _lives_ that night! And for _what?_ Because you were too much of a fucking coward to stand up for yourself!'

'I didn't know what else to do!' Draco had stumbled back against the table from the force of the shove, but he didn't retaliate. 'Tell me, oh Chosen One, what _should_ I have done? What would the great Harry fucking Potter have done if he were me?'

'Anything!' snapped Harry. 'Anything but what you did! If the Order hadn't shown up do you have any idea what would have happened that night? Do you really think that the Death Eaters would have left after just killing Dumbledore? Do you really think _Greyback_ would have distinguished between Slytherins and Gryffindors? You put everyone—even your _friends_, Malfoy—in danger that night! And for what? _You? Your_ family? What about _their_ families? Just because you're wealthy and fucking pure-blood doesn't make you worth more than anyone—not even the Weasleys!'

'Oh, that's rich coming from you!' Draco snapped back. 'If I recall, you got plenty of people hurt, running off after Black because _you_ were stupid enough to fall for the trap! Or did you forget about that?' he added savagely, at the look of surprise appearing on Harry's face. '_You've_ made mistakes too, you fucking hypocrite! But when The Boy Who Fucked Up gets people hurt, _he_ gets forgiven!'

'I never asked forgiveness for that! I didn't mean for anyone—'

'_Neither did I!_' Draco's voice had gotten raw from all of the yelling, and he cleared his throat several times before his breathing stabilised. He looked severely shaken, still supporting himself with table. Harry was shocked to see his eyes watering, and he suddenly had a feeling of déjà vu as he remembered walking in on him back in sixth year, crying in the bathroom with Moaning Myrtle. The blonde had the same look on his face—only this time instead of sobbing, he still looked extremely ill, to the point that he might vomit.

Harry had taken several deep breaths before he asked abruptly, 'You're on Veritaserum?'

Draco glared at him, his cloudy eyes darkening. 'Of course I'm on fucking Veritaserum.'

Harry took a moment to organise his thoughts—he'd been trained in basic interrogation, and knew how to ask most questions so that someone on Veritaserum couldn't find a loophole.

'Would you have killed Dumbledore? If the Death Eaters hadn't shown up, I mean—would you have killed him yourself?'

'No,' Draco said without hesitation.

'Why not?'

'I….' Draco stopped and thought about it for a moment before the Veritaserum forced him to finish. 'I didn't want to. I didn't want to kill anybody. And I believed him.'

'About protecting you?'

Draco took another few moments to think before answering. 'All of it,' he said.

'Are you working for Voldemort?'

'No,' Draco hissed, wincing. 'Will you stop using his name?'

Harry ignored him. 'Are you working with any of the Death Eaters?'

'No.'

'Have you been in contact with Snape in the last four years?'

'No.'

'Do you know where Snape is?'

'No,' Draco said again. 'How about you ask all these at the same time, so I only have to answer "no" once?'

'Are you planning to kill me?'

'Very possibly if you keep on with the stupid questions,' Draco growled.

'Are you planning at any time in the future on returning to Voldemort or his supporters with any information you've learned?'

Draco flinched again. 'For fuck's sake, no. I want to watch the bastard burn for what he did to my father.'

'Your father deserved it,' Harry said truthfully.

Draco glared at him furiously. 'But do _I_ deserve it? Unless you want to take another look at the mob outside this room waiting to mount my head on a stick to remind yourself, you are the _only_ thing between me and Azkaban, Potter. My lawyers can talk and debate until they're blue in the face about all the technicalities and loopholes they can find, but when it comes down to it, I'm _still_ the son of a Death Eater. All they see is this–' he pointed at himself, '–same hair, same eyes, same face—which just makes me my father as far they're concerned.'

Harry was doing some very hard thinking. He really wanted the Malfoys to pay for what happened—but Lucius _was_ already dead, and he was having a hard time finding a reason to blame Draco for his father's actions. And as much as Harry hated to admit it, a lot of the things Malfoy had said to him had struck home, and it bothered him deeply. But what about all of the people he had hurt? Malfoy had been horrible at Hogwarts—kids or not, he had taken advantage of every situation he could in order to hurt people. Tormenting Harry at every opportunity, always calling Hermione _Mudblood_, constantly insulting the Weasleys… the list went on and on. He'd nearly killed Katie Bell with that cursed necklace, and then Ron again with the poison. If Harry hadn't been there, Ron would be….

Harry sat down on the table next to Draco, his head feeling very heavy all of a sudden. He had put most of these things behind him, filed them away in the furthest corners of memory, because he had more important things to think about nowadays. Having Draco here was bringing it all back to the surface, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to condemn him for the stupid little things. And after listening, he wasn't so sure about the big things anymore.

Draco ran his hand through his hair, looking nervous now that Harry was silent. Taking a long, slow breath, he looked down at his feet. 'Look, I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'For all of it. Everything—and I don't expect to be forgiven for any of it, I don't even deserve it. And of all people, the last person I ever wanted to ask for a favour was you. But I need this. If not for me, at least—my mum—' His voice broke on the word and he stopped. After a pause, he added, 'Please.'

Harry was floored. Malfoy had just apologised to him—and on Veritaserum at that.

Standing up, Harry pocketed his wand. 'You're asking for an awful lot.'

'I know.'

'You don't deserve it,' Harry told him. 'I don't owe you anything.'

'I know.'

Harry made towards the door, stopping with his hand on the knob. 'Just one more thing.'

Draco raised an eyebrow.

'I want to know what happened that night. The night Snape took you from Hogwarts.'

Draco suddenly looked uncomfortable, but began to open his mouth.

'Not now,' Harry finished. 'Later. But I want to know.'

Draco closed his mouth, nodded, and Harry left the room.

: : :

When Harry came out of the office, several people crowded into his field of vision at once.

'Harry! Are you okay?'

'We heard shouting—'

'—Arthur wouldn't let us in—'

'—thought he attacked you—'

'—what did he want?'

Harry ducked away from them, moving as quickly as he could towards Mr Weasley, and told him that they needed to talk—_right now_.

'I'll be back in a minute,' he snapped at Robards. Any other time, he may have thought twice about snapping at his boss, but none of that mattered at the moment. They could all wait; he had to talk with someone in the Order, and soon.

'What is it?' Arthur asked, jogging to keep up with Harry as he headed for the lift.

'We need to go somewhere… safe,' Harry told him. 'I need to talk to McGonagall.'

Arthur checked his watch. 'Well, if we hurry, we could be in and out of Hogwarts before the lunch rush.' Harry nodded and closed the lift doors behind him.

Once in the entrance hall, they booked a fireplace to Floo directly to Hogwarts, sending a magically delivered post ahead to alert McGonagall to their imminent arrival. She was just folding up the note as Harry arrived in her fireplace, coughing and wiping his glasses clean. Ever since his first experience with the Floo Network and landing in Knockturn Alley, it had remained his least favourite way to travel.

Arthur soon followed him, wiping ashes out of his eyes. 'Good morning, Minerva.'

The portraits above her stirred, looking at the visitors with interest, and Albus Dumbledore's painting winked down at Harry. McGonagall peered at them both over her square spectacles and folded her hands on the desk. 'This is quite the unexpected visit,' she said curtly. 'I take it that it's urgent?'

Arthur looked at Harry, who had begun pacing. Even though he was no longer her student, he still had trouble holding McGonagall's gaze. The woman had a way of making him nervous without even trying. Taking a deep breath, he explained to the both of them everything Malfoy had said.

When he was finished, McGonagall took a moment to digest the information. 'That's quite a demand.'

'Pretty much the same thing he told me the other night,' Arthur said.

Harry and McGonagall both stared at him.

'Oh,' he said, looking as if he had just remembered something. 'Malfoy showed up at Headquarters last night.'

'_What?_' said Harry, his mouth hanging open.

'Why weren't any of us notified?' McGonagall demanded, standing up.

'How does he know where—' Harry began, but Arthur put up a hand to interrupt him.

'Lupin was there. He heard Malfoy out, and summoned me there. Malfoy claims he got the location from Severus years ago.'

'_Severus?_' exclaimed McGonagall, looking cross.

'Would that even work?' Harry asked. 'I mean, wouldn't Dumbledore have had to tell him directly?'

'Well, not exactly. Do you recall how you learned the location?' asked Arthur.

Harry thought about it. 'Yeah… it was on a piece of parchment. Moody—'

'Exactly,' said Arthur. 'As long as the note written by the Secret-Keeper, and intended for you, given to you from someone who already knows the information—'

'—then it works,' McGonagall finished for him. 'But the biggest question is why Dumbledore would do it, and without telling anyone.'

'Well, he obviously told _Snape_,' growled Harry. 'But still—_Malfoy_—he would have had to have kept it all this time!'

'Well, that's entirely possible,' Arthur told him. 'And Lupin said that when he showed up, he was looking for you. And now we know why. He wants you to get him off the hook.'

In a flush of green flames, Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared in the fireplace, dusting off his robes. 'Sorry I'm late, I had to lose Robards—what's the emergency?'

'It appears that Mr Malfoy is seeking sanctuary in Potter,' McGonagall told him, folding her arms.

Kingsley raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle.

Harry sat down in one of the chairs by McGonagall's desk, feeling incredibly dizzy. 'This is insane. Why does he think I can help him? Or that I'd even want to?'

McGonagall, Kingsley, and Arthur exchanged significant looks, making Harry narrow his eyes. 'What?'

'Well,' said Kingsley.

'You _are_ Harry Potter,' Arthur pointed out.

'Oh, am I?' Harry said sarcastically. 'That would explain all the funny looks I get. What's your _point?_'

McGonagall took her seat again and gave him a meaningful look. 'Potter, it makes sense—if anyone can help him, it would be you.'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'I just don't know what to do about the whole thing. I mean, yeah we were just kids, but he could have come forward before—and he _still_ did what he did, I don't care what his excuses are.'

'Personally, I wouldn't let him off, I don't care what he says,' Kingsley said. 'That little prick is just like his father, and the last thing we need is another Malfoy.'

_But when it comes down to it, I'm still the son of a Death Eater._

Harry frowned. 'He says he knows where a Horcrux is.'

Arthur's eyes widened slightly and McGonagall's eyebrows flew up into her witch's cap.

'Now that,' McGonagall said, 'would be worthy of further investigation.'

Harry sighed. Since Hogwarts, he had had no luck in locating any more of Voldemort's Horcruxes. Spending every free moment of his seventh-year researching, digging and scouring, he had only managed to find more hints and clues and was no closer to knowing who R. A. B. was than he was to mastering Occulmency. The Order was so desperate for any trace of a Horcrux that if Malfoy had _any_ information pertaining to them, he was well worth investigating.

'Is it worth trusting him?' Kingsley asked. 'Letting him get close to Harry is a big risk.'

Arthur hesitated, looking at Harry with apprehension.

'I'm not a kid anymore,' Harry snapped. 'I'm not afraid of him.'

'The fact remains it's still a risk,' McGonagall said. 'And if Severus has been helping him… there's plenty of ways around truth serums, and if he's at all skilled in Legilimency—'

'—then he can lie to our faces even under the strongest dose of Veritaserum,' finished Kingsley. 'We'd need another experienced Legilimens to look at him, and last I checked Snape's the best we had.'

'There's another way,' Harry said quietly, but no one seemed to have heard.

'What about Flunscer?' Arthur asked. 'He's no Snape but he might be able to tell if Malfoy's hiding anything.'

Kingsley shook his head. 'Out of the country on Ministry business, he won't be back for a month at least.'

McGonagall was tapping the desk with her wand. 'Dumbledore instructed me with the basics, but if he's learned from Severus directly then I wouldn't be able to tell if he's hiding anything or not, he was too talented—'

_Slam._

All three abruptly stopped talking as Harry dropped Dumbledore's old Pensieve down on the desk. 'I said there's another way.'

: : :

_Why am I fighting to live, if I'm just living to fight?  
Why am I trying to see, when there's nothing in sight?  
Why am I trying to give, when no one gives me a try?  
Why am I dying to live, if I'm just living to die?_  
- 2 Pac

: : :

'So, who's going again?'

Harry looked up—had he been asleep? He had spent the weekend at Grimmauld Place, running the events of the past two days through his mind, trying to make sense of it all. Now Arthur and Lupin were looking at him with concern, and McGonagall was hovering close by, her eyes so narrowed that the frames of her glasses were cutting into her skin.

'Er, what?' he offered.

'Well, you're going, of course,' Arthur said, as if that explained everything. 'But someone should accompany you – and as only two people can go, we need to decide who that will be.'

Now it made sense: he was talking about the trip into Draco's memories. Harry had not put the proposition to Draco himself; Kingsley had laid it by his attorneys, who had passed it on. They couldn't let the Ministry know what they were doing, of course; it was illegal to force someone to reveal their memories, even in court. Though technically, they weren't _forcing_ Malfoy—and if he wanted help, they needed to be sure.

'Professor? What about you?' Harry asked McGonagall, yawning.

'I have no desire to see them,' she replied curtly. Whenever someone brought up Dumbledore or Snape, McGonagall tended to be rather snappier than usual.

'I'll go,' Lupin offered. 'I need to confirm that Malfoy's memory matches up with his story anyway.'

Arthur nodded. 'Right, as soon as they're finished we'll get started then.'

They were all sitting in the drawing room, waiting for Kingsley to return with the Pensieve. He had taken it with him to the Ministry to retrieve the memory, since they could not take Draco out. They did not have to wait long—the Pensieve appeared with a _swoosh_ of air on the table, followed by a note that stated that Draco had complied and deposited the memory they had requested. The four of them stared at the Pensieve apprehensively, as if afraid to investigate further.

'Well,' said Lupin, breaking the silence. 'Let's get this over with.'

Harry stood up, withdrawing his wand and following Lupin to the large stone bowl. The bright, silvery substance inside the basin was moving in ceaseless spirals. In the centre of the spiral, as his wand probed the surface, a small picture was forming—a large room with stone walls that looked unnervingly familiar….

Suddenly he was diving headfirst towards the picture, which seemed to speed up, images flashing before his eyes as he caught glimpses whilst he fell.

He landed and looked around. The place _was_ familiar; the deserted ramparts, the door leading to the spiral staircase, and the Dark Mark glittering above their heads—the Astronomy Tower. Draco Malfoy, four years younger, was standing with his wand pointed at Dumbledore. Harry watched the scene from Malfoy's point of view, his own sixteen-year-old self invisible under the cloak, hiding against the wall. As vividly as he remembered this night, it was much harder to watch it this way, to be in the room again and to _know_ what was coming….

Beside him, Lupin watched, fully absorbed. It suddenly occurred to Harry why; of course, Lupin had never seen this before. All anyone had ever had was Harry's word. As if reading Harry's mind, Lupin spared him a glance. 'Are you okay, Harry?'

'Yes,' he lied.

Harry's blood boiled and he closed his eyes when Snape came into the room—he had no desire to watch the murder again, he had seen it plenty of times in his dreams. When he opened them again they were moving, following Draco as Snape dragged him from the room, down the stairs, out of the castle… they passed bodies on the way, Snape yelling at the other Death Eaters that they were finished, that it was time to go…. Harry saw himself running after Snape, looking more furious then he could ever remembered being, throwing curses and hexes after him. Snape blocked them with ease and pushed Draco ahead, staying back to hold Harry up….

'_Go!'_ he told Draco. 'Go and wait for me!'

Draco kept running. He pulled out his wand and shouted, '_Accio_ Nimbus!' Seconds later, the black broomstick came flying up behind him and he mounted it at a run, speeding away from Hogwarts. Harry cursed himself for not thinking of that—that night, if he had called his Firebolt, he could have gone after them—_stopped_ them….

Draco was airborne for what seemed like ages. What was going on inside his head, Harry and Lupin could only speculate. Being in the air seemed to have relaxed him however, enough that he no longer looked terrified, just confused. Harry's stomach did a back flip as Draco suddenly went into a steep dive, plummeting almost vertical to the ground, pulling up shortly before he breached the forest below. He looped the same area several times, eyes searching the canopy as if looking for the Snitch. After several long minutes, he seemed to have found what he was looking for, and glided beneath the trees.

Snape had his back to them, facing a small, blue fire he'd created next to a fallen log. He turned slowly to face Draco, and Harry was surprised to see him looking—there was no other word for it—_relieved_. Draco hopped off the broom and for a fleeting moment, Harry was expecting Snape to hug him. Then the blonde threw his broomstick on the ground and verbally assaulted Snape with a ferocity that shocked Harry.

'_What the hell did you do that for?_' Draco was screaming, gesturing wildly with his hands, and was almost tall enough to look Snape in the eye. 'I told you I didn't want your help! Now you've—'

Harry winced at the force with which Snape's hand hit Draco, backhanding him harshly across the face and effectively silencing him. Draco staggered backwards, bewildered. Snape loomed over him, emitting the same aura of powerful rage he had in Dumbledore's office. And as that had caused even Greyback to cower from the man, Draco looked rightfully shaken, and he shrank away from Snape like a wounded animal, rubbing his cheek.

'Do not delude yourself, foolish boy!'

Harry was stunned. He had never seen Snape treat Malfoy with anything except tolerance and on many occasions, inimitable favouritism. Draco looked as shocked as Harry felt.

Snape didn't pursue physical abuse, but there was a fire in his eyes Harry had only witnessed once before, when he had been caught snooping in Snape's memories during fifth year. His anger seemed even to surpass what it had been then. He stared long and hard at Draco and then, as if growing exasperated, cursed and turned away. Draco stood up straight and approached him warily, as though frightened that Snape would lash out again.

'_All year!_' Snape hissed. 'All year long I offer you assistance, all year you push me away—and for what? Because you think I'm trying to steal your _glory?_' He turned around, effectively stopping Draco in his tracks. 'Let me educate you, Draco; there is nothing _glorious_ about the life you have chosen to follow; only suffering and servitude!'

'I didn't _choose_ anything!' Draco snapped. 'You act like I asked for this—like I _wanted_ this—he was going to _kill_ me— '

'And you chose to live!' said Snape. 'That was _your_ choice, Draco! You do not have to defend the sins of your father, but you must answer for your own!'

'How would _you_ know anything about it? It's not that simple! I'm a _Malfoy_—'

'Then _act_ like one!'

Draco looked very much as if Snape had slapped him again. He sat down hard on the small log beside the fire, white-blonde head dropping into his hands. Snape regarded him in silence for a long minute before joining him, head bowed low—it suddenly dawned on Harry and Lupin that Draco was talking, and they had to move closer and strain to hear him.

'—turn out like this,' Harry heard Draco saying. His voice was struggling; it sounded as if it was stretching out further and further as he spoke. 'I thought it was what he wanted for me, and if I did it, he'd be forgiven, and then everything would be all right again.'

'Listen to me, Draco. The Dark Lord _will_ ask you to do this again… and again… and I won't be there every time.'

Draco sagged sideways against the older man. 'I don't want to do this.'

'The punishment for failure _will_ be death, you know that.'

'I don't care!' Draco snapped, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs.

'Yes, you do,' Snape said gently. 'There are no more chances, no room for second thoughts with this decision. Be sure it's what you truly want.'

'I want is to live,' Draco said quietly.

Snape paused again, and Harry used the silence to voice an important question to Lupin. 'But Snape's a Death Eater,' he whispered. 'If Malfoy tried to pull out, shouldn't he have killed him?'

'One would think so,' Lupin said quietly.

Then they both fell silent, because at that moment Snape stood up. 'Then we must move quickly. The Dark Lord will be expecting us both; we do not have much time.' Snape reached into his robes and retrieved what looked like a small, leather envelope. He handed it to Draco, who looked up at him quizzically. 'Keep this; do not lose it. When the time comes, use it to find your allies.'

'But who—' Draco started.

Snape silenced him by holding up a hand. 'Upon reaching the Manor you are to follow your father's instructions until he can no longer shelter you. Then use the information sealed inside that letter to seek sanctuary. It will not be easy, but if you wish to live, it is the best option for you.'

Draco nodded weakly and put the letter inside of his robes. 'What about you? Won't he be angry—'

'Do not worry about what happens to me,' Snape said. 'You must promise me that you will not use the information I gave you until the time comes, and you are out of options.'

'But—'

'_Swear_ to me, Draco.'

Draco sighed and nodded. 'I swear.'

'Good.' He Summoned Draco's broom to them with a quick flick of his wand, and handed it to the blonde. 'Are you well enough to Apparate?'

'Yes.' Draco tucked his broom under his arm. 'Where are we going?'

'The Manor,' Snape said, and he then hesitated. 'One more thing,' he added finally. 'When you return, the public will reject you. To them you are, and always will be, another Malfoy—something to be hated and feared in these times. They will hold it against you and use it to discredit you. You must seek help if you intend to be of any use.'

'Help?' Draco said incredulously. 'From _who?_'

Snape looked down at him with slight concern. 'Very few will be willing, and even fewer will be able to, even if you do manage to win their good graces.'

Draco looked at his feet. Snape put a hand on his shoulder, making him look back up. 'There is someone,' Snape said finally. 'You will not like—'

Snape stopped talking with a sharp hiss, the hand he had on Draco's shoulder moving to pull back the sleeve of his left arm. The Dark Mark blazed red and black on his skin, pulsing as if it was a hot coal.

'We're out of time, he is calling for us,' Snape said urgently. 'Listen carefully. When the time comes, you _must_ go to Potter.'

'_Potter?_' Draco exclaimed, stepping back and staring at him in disbelief. 'Are you _insane?_ He would kill me before he did anything to help me! There has to be—'

'Nobody else!' Snape seized Draco by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. 'You are in no position to be picky about your allies, Draco! When it is time, _you have to go to Potter._'

Draco looked on the verge of panicking while Snape put out the small fire with his wand. 'But—_wait_—what if I need to contact you? How do I find you?'

Snape put his wand away, and his dark eyes turned to look Draco. 'Don't,' he said.

The forest around them blurred and faded to white, and the memory was over. Several seconds later, Harry was standing back inside the drawing room, breathing very heavily.

Lupin was beside him and rubbing his eyes with his hands. 'Well,' he said, blinking, 'at least now we know why Draco came to you.'

: : :

_When a coward is doing something he is ashamed of,  
he always declares that it is his duty._  
- George Bernard Shaw

: : :

Draco had never been to Level Ten in the Ministry of Magic before, and was therefore very surprised when he was escorted down a dreary staircase into a dungeon-like corridor. The intimidating wizard escorting him had wiry, grey hair took him roughly by the arm and pulled him forward. Draco had a mind to tell him that he could sue for excessive manhandling, but his thoughts were cut short by their arrival at courtroom eight, and he was shoved brusquely inside.

They built this place to _make_ you feel guilty, he thought gloomily, and vividly remembered the basement beneath his father's drawing room floor. The room was vast and incredibly dark, and he could just make out the outline of the Wizengamot by the light of the torches. Draco was dumped unceremoniously in the chair below them, and he recoiled as the chains attached to the chair clinked threateningly.

His attorney was already there, sitting in a straight-backed chair just to his right. On his left, by the edge of the Wizengamot benches, his mother sat beside Lupin, Potter, and Madam Rosmerta, flanked by Arthur Weasley and the Auror that had dragged Draco into the courtroom. He recognised several of the Wizengamot, many of them his father's old Ministry associates, and sitting far to the right was none other than McGonagall. _She hasn't changed at all in the last four years_, he thought, as she fixed him with her hawk-like stare.

'Thank you, Dawlish,' said the wizard who was seated at the front centre of the court. He looked like a very severe vicar, with high, well-defined cheekbones. He was balding, but what hair he did have was dark grey and looked well-groomed. On his left sat the Minister, and on his right, a young-looking man with large eyebrows and dark brown hair.

'Let us begin,' Scrimgeour said solemnly.

The centremost wizard tapped a long piece of parchment on the bench. 'Reprisal Hearing of the eleventh of July, into offences committed against numerous Ministry Magical Decrees, including but not limited to the performance of Unforgivable Curses, by Draco Abraxas Malfoy, resident of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire.' The full list of charges was harsh; sabotage, infiltration, espionage, terrorism, attempted murder—each of which on their own was worth a life sentence in Azkaban.

'Interrogators: Marius Estelle Constantine, Chief Warlock for the Wizengamot; Fabian Argun, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister for Magic; Ignacio Luigi, Undersecretary to the Minister. Court scribe, Cyntheria Amy Enkittle…. Witnesses for the defence: Narcissa Black Malfoy, Rosmerta Esmeralda Rae, Remus John Lupin, Arthur Weasley, and Harry James Potter.' At the mention of Harry's name, numerous whispers arose from the Wizengamot.

Constantine cleared his throat and looked up from the sheet of parchment. 'You are Draco Abraxas Malfoy, resident of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire?'

'I am,' Draco replied as angelically as he could.

'Do you understand the charges brought against you?'

'Yes.'

'Do you admit to committing the charges as stated, Mr Malfoy?'

_As stated._ It was times like this one had to love the loopholes provided by jargon. 'No.'

The Wizengamot broke into mutterings again until Constantine cleared his throat once more. He addressed Ricardo this time. 'Will Mr Malfoy be speaking on his own behalf?'

Ricardo looked over, and Draco knew what he was thinking—his lawyer had the philosophy that he who spoke in his own defence condemned himself to conviction, but in this particular case, Draco needed the appeal. He nodded, and Ricardo frowned before answering the question. 'My client will defend himself unless otherwise noted.'

'Very well,' Constantine said, turning his gaze back to Draco. 'What have you to say for yourself, Mr Malfoy?'

Draco explained, very concisely, the truth. He was sixteen. His father was a Death Eater, but he was still _his father_, which had put him in an unavoidable and compromising situation. That he had done what he had to, because his only other choice was execution, and that he hardly considered it as being 'of his own free will' with that sort of alternative; and as far as he was concerned, the only thing he was guilty of was being used as a puppet by the Dark Lord.

Scrimgeour would have gotten along well with his father, Draco thought miserably, as the Minister didn't seem to think cowardice was an acceptable excuse, and said so.

Ignoring the glare from Ricardo, Draco said, 'Minister, with all due respect, what would _you_ have done?'

'The Ministry has a number of solutions to protect individuals and their families if there is any reason to believe they are in danger. If you had simply come to us—'

'Then I wouldn't be here today to bother you,' Draco supplied for him, 'because I find it very hard to believe that anyone in the Ministry would have granted protection to the son of a Death Eater they had locked in Azkaban.'

Constantine raised his eyebrows, and Fabian leaned over to whisper something in Scrimgeour's ear.

'Regardless, the fact remains that Mr Malfoy indirectly admitted to several of the charges placed against him, whether he committed them willingly or not,' Scrimgeour said loudly, quieting the whispers in the room. 'We will now hear from witnesses for the defence.'

Both Lupin and Arthur had to give a testimony of the night Draco arrived on Lupin's doorstep, although they were careful not to mention the exact place. Arthur did most of the talking, and described in detail all that Draco had told him, and Draco was pleased to find that not only was this particular Weasley completely honest about the entire thing, he even sounded as if he were strongly convinced it was an acceptable excuse.

Next they called Madam Rosmerta who confirmed that indeed, Draco had not put her under the Imperius Curse—that it had, in fact, been Bellatrix Lestrange. Draco didn't add that his aunt had performed the curse for his own benefit. Following her to the stand was his mother, chin held high.

She told them very plainly that his father was, despite the small detail of being a servant of the Dark Lord, a loving husband and father. That he had kept his work with Death Eaters well separated from home, up until the point that he was imprisoned in Azkaban. This, she stated, was when the Dark Lord came to her son with a task, the successful completion of which would redeem his father—or the alternative, execution; and that, for the past four years, they had been in hiding not in fear of the Ministry, but of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Draco was impressed with her performance, though he supposed he should have expected it, as his mother had stood by his father and his crimes for years without losing neutral standing.

Constantine seemed satisfied with her testimony and dismissed her, then called Harry Potter to stand witness.

'If Potter decides to pull out, would it be okay to mention that the whole "arch-nemesis" thing makes him biased?' Draco whispered to his lawyer hopefully. Ricardo said usually, yes, but in this case, no, because this was Harry Potter and the whole world _loved_ Harry Potter and would believe him no matter what.

Typical, Draco thought.

'Mr Potter,' Constantine began, 'we understand that you were in the same year as Mr Malfoy at Hogwarts, is this correct?'

'Yes,' said The Boy Who Could Lie Through His Teeth And Get Away With It.

'And as a result,' the wizard continued, 'we assume you have a good understanding of his character?'

'Very good,' said Potter, with feeling.

'So, in your own words, how would you describe what Mr Malfoy was like while he was at Hogwarts?'

Innocent! Draco thought desperately at Harry's head. Brilliant! Admirable! Honest and loving and full of animal magnetism!

Harry looked over at Draco briefly and then back up at the Wizengamot.

'He was a prat.'

Draco's head dropped into his hands in dismay.

Argun and Constantine raised their eyebrows, and Scrimgeour let out a subtle cough. 'Could you be a little more specific, please?' Constantine pressed.

The Boy Who Meant To Condemn Him sighed. 'He wasn't very nice. Well, not to me anyway.'

Draco briefly entertained the thought that Snape had sent him to Potter as some sick, twisted, very-delayed way of punishing him. He had _tried_ being nice to Harry their first year, but the bastard blew him off for that stupid weasel! Of course he'd been nasty after that!

'As I understand it, Mr Potter, on the night Albus Dumbledore was murdered, you were present to witness; is this correct?'

'Yes.'

'Would you please state for the court what happened that night?'

Taking a slow, hesitant breath, Harry began to explain, sounding like he had repeated these words too many times before: that they had returned to find the Dark Mark over the school, and after reaching the Astronomy Tower, Dumbledore had ordered Harry under his Invisibility Cloak before performing a Freezing Charm on him just as Malfoy burst in the room, and how Malfoy had used this second of distraction to disarm Dumbledore. Then Harry said something Draco was sure he had imagined purely from wishful thinking.

Apparently, his wishful thinking had invaded the mind of the interrogator, too. 'I'm sorry, could you repeat that?'

'I said Malfoy wasn't going to kill Dumbledore, sir.'

Draco could have kissed him.

Scrimgeour's eyes were very narrow, and he looked very much like an angry lion when he spoke. 'And how you know this, Potter? As I understand it, you are—excuse me for saying so—rather poor at Legilimency.'

'Because I know Malfoy,' Harry snapped, glaring at the Minister. 'Ask him yourself, he'll tell you the same thing. And even though I couldn't move, I could hear every word they said.'

And then it hit Draco. These two did not like each other very much. What in the hell was Harry's problem, with all of the Ministers hating him? Then again, none of the Ministers liked Dumbledore very much either. _Birds of a feather_, he presumed.

'They?' Scrimgeour demanded.

'Yes.' Harry looked impatient. 'Dumbledore said he had known all along what Malfoy had been up to, and he didn't stop him because he didn't want to get him or his family hurt.'

The courtroom was very quiet, and Draco wished they would start muttering again.

'And then?' asked Constantine.

'Malfoy lowered his wand,' Harry said simply. 'And then Snape and the other Death Eaters came in.'

Draco's brain was so entirely relieved at this turn of events that he nearly missed what Constantine said next.

'Mr Malfoy, the Wizengamot requests that you present your left forearm to the court.'

'What?' Draco asked, genuinely bewildered by the request.

'Your left forearm,' Constantine repeated. 'Pull back your sleeve, and show it to the Wizengamot.'

Draco thought this was very unfair and had a mind to show them his middle finger instead. He raised his left arm, wrist back, and let the sleeve of his robe drop, displaying flawless skin from wrist to elbow. 'Satisfied?'

He could have sworn both Harry and Lupin exhaled identical breaths, and Scrimgeour frowned at him.

'Thank you,' Constantine said, dismissing Harry. 'Draco Malfoy, the Wizengamot will now request that you willingly submit to a series of questions under Veritaserum. Compliance is highly advised, and your responses may have a direct influence upon our final decision. This is not a mandatory procedure, however, and you may decline.'

Draco looked at Ricardo, who nodded. Standing up, he approached the bench, where the warlock gave a vial to Dawlish, who shoved it at Draco. 'Drink,' he said sharply.

Draco swallowed it easily, and tossed the vial back at Dawlish.

Constantine waited several moments to allow the serum to take effect before beginning. 'Mr Malfoy, I want you to tell the Wizengamot once again if you feel you are guilty of the charges placed against you.'

'No,' Draco said. 'I don't.'

'Are you working as a spy for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Are you in any way affiliated with any of his supporters? Are you involved in any illegal activities at this point in time?'

'No, no, and no.' Draco was getting very tired of these questions.

'Mr Malfoy, I want you to tell the court if you, on the night Death Eaters infiltrated Hogwarts School, would have murdered Albus Dumbledore.'

'No, I wouldn't have killed Dumbledore,' Draco said, growing exasperated. 'I didn't want to kill anybody.'

Looking satisfied, Constantine nodded. 'That will be all. Please take your seat, Mr Malfoy.'

Draco took his seat again, making the chains shudder once more.

Constantine called Harry forward again. 'Mr Potter, you have heard the terms of the agreement that Mr Malfoy has made. If the Wizengamot agrees to grant such a settlement, it greatly depends on your concurrence on the matter. Are you in agreement with the terms?'

Only with the briefest moment of hesitation, Harry nodded and said, 'I am.'

Surveying the room, it suddenly occurred to Draco why Lupin had really come to the hearing. He seemed to be hanging off every response Harry made, much like Draco was. It seemed there were alternative forces besides the Malfoy Charm working Potter, and he made a mental note to send Lupin some new robes.

'We will take a moment to weigh our decision,' Constantine announced.

Dawlish cast a Deafening Charm on Draco, preventing him from hearing the discussion of the Wizengamot. It wasn't easy watching the lot of them huddle together, making exaggerated hand movements and in some cases, shouting. McGonagall seemed to have seized Constantine's attention, and was talking quickly and intently to him; Scrimgeour was shaking his head at Argun, casting nasty looks down at Draco; a large group of witches and wizards at the back seemed to have already formed their opinions, for they were talking very little and tapping the bench impatiently. Many of them kept looking down at him, and for that he was very glad because he was putting on the most innocuous expression he could muster.

After what seemed like at least half an hour, Dawlish removed the charm, and Draco rubbed his ears as the noise came back to them.

'All of those in favour of clearing the accused of all charges?'

His eyes scanned the Wizengamot—Constantine, Argun, McGonagall and many others had their hands raised. He smirked. It seemed Snape knew what he was talking about after all.

'All of those in favour of conviction?'

Scrimgeour was first with his hand in the air, followed by the Undersecretary and several other members, but they were certainly the minority. Draco let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

'Very well,' Constantine said. 'Cleared of all charges.'


	3. Chapter Two: Divide et Impera

Chapter 2  
**Divide et Impera**

_For every hand extended, another lies in wait  
Keep your eye on that one  
Anticipate_  
—Ani DiFranco

: : :_  
_

'No, Henry, I told him about it well in advance. Yes, it's tomorrow. Well I frankly don't give a damn if he's not ready, he's known about this for weeks and I—yes, yes, that'll be fine, just as long as he is there at nine. Yes, you too, have a good night.'

He had barely dropped the phone back on the hook when there was a soft knock at the door. Withholding a groan, he said, 'Come in.'

'I'm sorry to bother you so late, Mr President,' said Marcy, his secretary, as she entered the Oval Office. She adjusted her glasses and glanced briefly at the clipboard clutched in her hands. 'The United Nations representative has been waiting patiently, do you have time to see him before you retire?'

'Again?' Here to try and persuade me into backing the Youth Education Bill again, no doubt, he thought bitterly. 'If it'll be quick; I have a long day tomorrow.'

'He says that he doesn't require much of your time,' she said, tucking the clipboard under her arm. 'I'll send him in. Have a good evening, Mr President.'

'Thank you, Marcy.'

He slowly gathered his papers, filing them into the folders on his desk. Several minutes went by quietly in this way, the only noise in the room the shuffling of paper. And then came another knock, so quiet he nearly missed it.

'Come in,' he said absently, tucking away the last of the files and folding his hands on the desk. 'Sorry to keep you waiting so long.'

The man who entered was not the representative the President had met earlier that week, though he was adorned with the same uniform, identification-tag style, and approached with the same rigid posture. He was a handsome man, with short, wavy black hair and dark eyes, and was several inches taller than the President, who stood to greet him.

'Mr President,' greeted the representative. He had a very strong English accent, and his hand had a firm grip and was extremely cold.

'Always happy to be of service; I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name–?'

'Riddle,' he replied with a charming smile. 'Tom Riddle.'

'Well, Mr Riddle, as you probably know, tomorrow will be quite an event for me, so my time tonight is limited.' The President sat back down behind his desk, gesturing to a seat in front of him. 'What can I do for you?'

Riddle took a seat in the leather chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together, looking thoughtful. 'Are you a God-fearing man, Mr President?'

'I beg your pardon?' the President offered, unsure whether he'd heard the question correctly.

'I want to know if you fear the wrath of a higher power,' Riddle reiterated patiently.

'This is hardly appropriate,' the President told him sternly. 'Unless you have business to conduct with me, Mr Riddle, this meeting is over.'

'The meeting will be over when I decide it is over,' Riddle replied calmly.

The President stared at him for several long moments before turning his attention to the pair of Secret Service agents standing on either side of the door at the other end of the room. There were always at least two of the agents in any room the President was in, short of his private bedroom and bathroom, and they were so quiet and stationary that they were easy to overlook unless you knew they were there.

'If you gentlemen would kindly show Mr Riddle the exit.'

The guards did not move; in fact, they did not even blink at the President's words. As far as he could tell, they weren't even breathing.

'Your security will not be disturbing us tonight,' Riddle informed him with a small smirk. 'Answer the question, Mr President.'

The tone in Riddle's voice had not wavered, but the President could sense the immediate danger he was in. Something was wrong—very, very wrong.

'What do you want?' the President demanded. 'If you think coming in here and threatening me is any way to get things done—'

'What I want,' Riddle said, cutting him off, 'is to be omnipotent.'

The President stared at Riddle, studying his brash yet serious expression, his narrowed eyes, and his rigid stature as he sat there, calmly threatening the President of the United States, and thought that the situation might have been funny if not for the cold grip that had suddenly affixed itself to his diaphragm.

'I don't understand,' the President said finally.

Riddle's smirk grew more pronounced. 'That does not surprise me.'

The grip on his diaphragm tightened again, and the President hit the red button on his speakerphone. 'Marcy, send in security.'

The machine crackled, and the President hissed as the button became scorching hot under his touch, burning him.

Nursing his hand, the President glared at Riddle. 'What the hell do you want?' he asked again, raising his voice.

Riddle, still smirking, stood up and moved to the centre of the office, where he finally turned back to the look at the President. He had a curious glint in his eyes and gesticulated with his hands as he spoke.

'I want _power_, Mr President. The same thing every man wants, yourself included; I want the world to recognise my power, and to submit to it. I want the preservation of my kind and the extermination of those I deem unworthy. Do you understand now?'

'You want to play God?' the President asked, incredulous. 'That's insane.'

'What is insane,' Riddle snapped, his smirk vanishing, 'is how avaricious men like yourself come to rule the most powerful country in the world.'

He approached the desk again at a quick pace. The President leaned back in his chair as Riddle shoved the desk back, hard, with the sole of his boot.

'What is insane, Mr President,' he snarled, folding his arms casually over his propped-up knee, 'is how an arrogant Muggle like yourself commands so much power from a position he must scam his way into. Men like you buy power; you do not work for it. You do not earn it. You do not deserve it.'

Edging away from the desk, the President stood up, eyes narrowed. An arrogant Muggle like yourself? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

'So is that what this is about? Another rebellion against democracy? I received my position as this country's leader by choice of the people, Mr Riddle, and I— ' The President stopped abruptly as Riddle leapt over the desk in a quick, fluid movement and shoved something hard and pointed under his throat.

'Do not attempt to placate me with your bullshit, Muggle,' Riddle hissed in his ear. 'You are nothing. You are less than nothing. You are simply a puppet, a tool for me to achieve my ends.'

Riddle released the President as suddenly as he'd assaulted him, walking back around the desk, adjusting his suit jacket with a quick tug and a jerk of his shoulders. Breathing heavily, the President rubbed his neck where Riddle had shoved the—the what? Knife? No, it was too dull for that… gun? The shaft had felt too narrow… .

'If you think I'm going to do a damn thing for you,' the President said, drawing a shaky breath, 'you're out of your mind.'

Riddle, his back still turned, began to laugh—a high, cruel laugh. 'Oh, I don't think there is any doubt that I'm out of my mind,' came the cold retort.

Tom Riddle whirled around to face him once more, his weapon raised.

'And I think you're going to do whatever I want you to, Mr President,' he said, dark eyes gleaming. _'Imperio._'

: : :

_'I can forgive, but I cannot forget,' is only another way of saying, 'I will not forgive.'_  
- Henry Ward Beecher

: : :

Living with Draco Malfoy had to be the worst idea in the long, sad history of bad ideas.

Thinking back, Harry probably should have expected it, but at first it had made a lot of sense for Draco to stay with him; despite the fact that Harry was living in a simple, two-bedroom Muggle flat in London, his building was probably the most fortified home in the city. He had absolutely refused to move into Headquarters, no matter how safe it was—Snape, after all, could still access it, and it housed too many bad memories for Harry to be able to bear living there. And here, he was still barely a stroll from Grimmauld Place, and reasonably close to the Ministry; if Voldemort really wanted to stroll up to his front door and attack him, let him. Harry was eager to get the whole thing over with.

Besides, his flat was just as heavily protected as Headquarters, the only difference being that the Fidelius Charm did not protect his home; Harry had outright refused to make anyone his Secret Keeper, lest they become a target. This decision, however, had not gone down very well with the Order—or his friends, for that matter. But Harry had absolutely refused to make anyone a target—he'd gotten enough people hurt, he'd told them, and he would not signing their death warrants.

If Voldemort was after Draco, the safest place for him to be would be with Harry. Plus, if he was honest, Harry didn't like the idea of Draco going unsupervised, and he was as good a choice as any to keep an eye on him. In the end, the Order had pulled so many strings to get the Wizengamot in Draco's favour that if anyone ever found out, they would lose all the credibility they had slowly built up over the past five years. It was such a huge, reckless risk for them to take, but they had done it anyway.

It was the right thing to do, Harry had told them. He told himself that, too. Dumbledore had shown faith in Draco, and the very least Harry could do was work from it and see where it led.

After all, he had seen the effect Voldemort had on Draco during their sixth year. Draco was terrified of him, and hadn't seemed as enthusiastic about the things he had to do once he actually had to do them. He had been all talk—threatening Harry, bragging about his task for Voldemort, even up until he cornered Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower. He had jumped in headfirst, and once he found out the means by which Voldemort achieved his ends, he panicked and wanted out.

This did not redeem the wrongs he'd committed, not by a long shot, but it did say something about his character. Draco was cruel, nasty, arrogant, and a multitude of other unpleasant things; but he was not a killer. As much as he claimed to hate Dumbledore, he could not bring himself to kill him.

Harry, at first, had attributed Draco's failure to cowardice. After all, Draco had shown time and again that bravery was not one of his distinguishing qualities (unless it involved provoking Harry to the point of violence, which he found the courage to do frequently). And at the time, the closest Harry had come to killing anyone was the accident with Draco in Myrtle's bathroom. The first time Harry had been in a position to kill someone in order to protect himself, he had hesitated—and it nearly cost him his life. The next time it happened, he did not hesitate—but the cold, sinking feeling in his chest had lingered long afterwards, and the deed had haunted him for weeks.

He did not enjoy this power he had, to take someone's life so easily, with a simple incantation and a thrust of his wand. It had terrified him.

It still terrified him.

Thinking about it, it had probably terrified Draco, too.

Revisiting the memory in the Pensieve had provoked thoughts that unsettled Harry deeply. When he had witnessed the scene firsthand, he had been struck numb and terrified—and the trauma of watching Dumbledore being murdered had blurred the events together; he had hardly recalled any of the specific words exchanged between Dumbledore and Draco. The Pensieve had given him the opportunity to step back and calmly assess what was said, something he had never bothered to do—it had never mattered before. But one section of the memory in particular had stuck in his mind, and it was these words that kept repeating themselves, over and over.

_'I got this far… I'm the one with the wand… you're at my mercy…'_

_'No, Draco. It is my mercy, not yours, that matters now.'_

And then Draco had started to lower his wand.

Now it was Harry's mercy that mattered.

Dumbledore would have given him this chance. Harry knew that. That's just who Dumbledore was… he'd given Harry a chance, and Lupin, and so many others that might well have died or turned against him or otherwise backfired, because Dumbledore believed that everyone deserved the opportunity to turn their lives around.

But he'd given Snape a chance, too, and look what good that had done him.

Bugger, Harry thought. What had he got himself into?

Draco had been in his flat for exactly seventy-two seconds before the first argument started.

Harry knew because he had been counting.

'Oh, hell,' Draco had sneered in disgust after looking around. 'This is lovely; you're actually livinglike a _Mudblood_.'

'Don't you dare use that word around me,' Harry had growled back. 'Remember: you're on myterms now, Malfoy.'

'Am I?' Draco cocked his head to the side and raised an eyebrow. 'As I recall, you signed an indenture with _my _terms on it, Potter.'

One part of the agreement that Harry had not wavered on was confiscating Draco's wand, just in case. Still, he had to remind himself several times throughout the first evening that Draco was unarmed. The urge to jinx the prat into oblivion built up against Harry like floodwater against a very feeble dam, and he had to retire to his room early just to keep himself from breaking. Draco hadn't been in his flat for more than two hours, and already he couldn't stand him.

Despite retreating to his room shortly after dinnertime, Harry hadn't actually fallen asleep until nearly two in the morning. It wasn't that he was paranoid; no, the reason he couldn't sleep was because he was seething. Dwelling on memories from Hogwarts and reliving those last, painful minutes in the Astronomy Tower. Thinking about every time Draco had insulted the Weasleys, every time he had called Hermione that filthy name, and every time he had done his best to make Harry's life more of a living hell than it had to be. He hated the bastard with every inch and fibre of his being.

Harry, furious at himself, had slammed his fist into his headboard, hard enough to break it. This had only served to make him angrier, and pure spite led him to neglect fixing the headboard. He hadn't fixed his fist, either, and regretted it immediately upon waking, because now in addition to being furious at Draco and at his own stupidity, the fingers of his wand hand were stiff and aching.

He also had a very sore forehead, but this was a common occurrence these days. Very rarely did he go an entire day without a dull ache pulsating behind the lightning-bolt scar, which only proved to make him more irritable.

Still, as meagre as it was, the sleep had helped calm Harry's mood considerably. Perhaps it had been too optimistic to think that the transition would be smooth—of course they would argue and be unpleasant to one another; that much should be expected. Harry could probably not expect someone like Ron to spend a minute alone with Draco without some sort of bloodshed taking place, but Harry wasn't Ron; he could control himself around Draco, even if the bastard was trying to be as insufferable as possible. Harry would not allow himself to descend to Draco's level.

Showered, groomed, clothed, and relieved, he wandered into the sitting room thirty minutes later to find Draco already lounging on the futon, playing with the remote. The scene was so bizarre that it took his brain, still slightly groggy, several long moments to grasp it.

'This thing is possibly the best Muggle invention I've seen yet,' Draco told Harry merrily when he noticed him. 'Check this out.'

It took Harry another moment to register the raunchy lesbian action onscreen, and to realise that Draco had discovered the Playboy channel. Rolling his eyes, Harry Summoned the remote and turned the television off, ignoring the accompanied protests.

Sulking, Draco got to his feet and followed Harry into the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the table and watched with mild interest as Harry started the electric kettle with a quick flick of his wand, and asked, 'So, what does your glorious unit of Evil Defeaters have in mind for me today?'

Before Harry could answer, an owl fluttered in through the open window with a roll of parchment clutched in its beak. Harry paid for his _Daily Prophet_, finished making his coffee and sat down at the table. He took a sip as he unrolled the _Prophet_, then saw the headline and promptly spat his coffee all over it.

**BOY WHO LIVED  
DEFENDS DEATH EATER**  
_Rumours abound that Harry Potter is under the Imperius Curse!_

_Two days ago, the Wizengamot tried Draco Malfoy, son of known Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, for serious crimes committed four years ago at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The gruesome remains of Lucius Malfoy had been recovered only a week before, at which time Draco willing surrendered himself over to the Ministry. Popular belief has it that Lucius' murder was at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, and many sources believe that Draco has replaced his father in the ranks of the Death Eaters._

_Needless to say, the community was shocked to hear that the young Malfoy was acquitted of all charges._

_Yesterday, the Daily Prophet received an anonymous inside report that none other than Harry Potter stood as witness to the defence. Many Ministry personnel believe Potter was hoodwinked by Malfoy and single-handedly swung the court's decision with his testimony. 'I still can't believe [Malfoy] got away with it,' Ignacio Luigi, Undersecretary to the Minister, told Daily Prophet reporters. 'I hope the Wizengamot sees their error and calls Mr Malfoy back to be punished for his crimes.' There have also been suggestions that Malfoy was using his newly-acquired inheritance to bribe members of the court, although the Ministry refused to comment on such accusations._

_We have been told that Malfoy is still in the company of Harry Potter, and many are speculating that Malfoy has placed him under the Imperius Curse in an effort to regain face in the wizarding world while working undercover for You-Know-Who… (story continued on pg. 3)._

'That is a terrible picture of you,' Draco commented over Harry's shoulder.

It was, too; but then, when had the _Daily Prophet_ ever tried to make Harry look flattering? Scowling, he tossed the paper aside. Draco picked it up and quickly examined the front page.

'You know,' he said after a moment, dropping the paper and taking the cup that Harry had left unguarded on the table, draining the remaining coffee before finishing, 'they're really giving me too much credit—I mean, come on, the Imperius Curse?'

'Didn't you use it on Madam Rosmerta?' Harry asked.

'Did you pay _any_ attention at all during the trial?' Draco asked with impatience, replacing the empty cup on the table. 'Rosmerta testified that it wasn't me, and that's the truth. I was _supposed_ to perform it myself, but I couldn't do it. Aunt Bella thought it was because I didn't have the "right attitude", but truth be told I liked Rosmerta too much to put enough heart into it. I mean, she used to give us free crates of Butterbeer for the holidays.'

Harry, who was having a hard time imagining Bellatrix Lestrange as something as mundane as an aunt, scowled, snatched up his empty cup and stood up to refill it. 'Us?'

'My House,' Draco said, tilting his head back as he reminisced. 'And Rosmerta was the only person _not_ in Slytherin that thought changing the winner of the House cup in first year was unfair. In fact, aside from Snape, I think she was the only adult who ever treated Slytherins on equal terms with the rest of the school.'

Harry snorted, returning the kettle. 'I would hardly call Snape's treatment of you "equal", Malfoy.'

'Yeah, well, somebody had to compensate,' Draco said bitterly. 'What with the Headmaster and the rest of the staff crooning over you stupid Gryffindorks— not to _mention_ the rest of the world with its Harry Potter predilection.'

'If this is your idea of favouritism, Malfoy, you can have it,' Harry snapped, with a sharp look at the _Prophet_.

'Oh, honestly, Potter, as if they wouldn't have found out,' Draco said, grimacing in mild disgust as Harry added milk to his coffee. 'You probably have your own department at the _Prophet's_ hub.'

'I knew it was bound to happen eventually, I just wish it could have been later rather than sooner,' Harry said heavily, sitting back down and keeping a firm hold of his mug; he was aware that Draco was eying it hungrily. 'You know, if you want some, you could _ask_.'

Draco's lip curled in a sneer. 'Malfoys do not ask, we _command_.'

Before Harry could muster a retort, there was a loud '_Crack!_' and a small, multi-coloured blur attached itself firmly to Harry's leg with a squeak.

'Mr Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is finished his holiday! Oh, it is _so_ good to see you, sir!'

'Hullo, Dobby,' Harry said with a small smile, and gently dislodged the house-elf from his leg. 'How's Winky doing?'

'Winky is doing much better! Harry Potter's friend is very good to Winky!'

'_Dobby?_' said a voice tinged with disbelief.

Dobby spun around, saw Draco, and for the first time in quite a while, Harry saw that the elf seemed to be at a loss for words.

This only lasted about three seconds, however, before he leapt at Draco's feet and exploded into sobs.

'Young Master Malfoy, sir! Dobby has been so worried for you! Dobby isn't knowing where you is going but that you was in big trouble, but Dobby isn't knowing what to do about it! Dobby is being too scared to come home! Dobby is so very very very sorry!'

'Oi!' Draco recoiled from Dobby's sobbing, looking alarmed. 'Dobby, _stop!_'

Like a well-trained pet, Dobby stopped at once, looking up at Draco with wide, tearful eyes, his bottom lip quivering.

Draco gave Harry an incredulous look. 'Would you mind explaining to me _why_ my ex-house-elf is working for you?'

'Er,' said Harry. 'Your father didn't tell you?'

'My father told me that Dobby'd dishonoured our family,' Draco said, looking down at Dobby again with suspicion, 'and that he dismissed him for his misconduct.'

Dobby began to wail again, this time beating his head against one of the table legs. 'Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby! Very, very bad Dobby!'

'Dobby!' Harry plucked Dobby up by the back of his violet jumper and gently set him on the floor, away from the table. 'He's not your family anymore; you don't have to feel bad about it. What did I tell you about punishing yourself?'

Dobby sniffed and blew his nose into his jumper. 'Mr Harry Potter is telling Dobby not to hurt himself, sir, because he is the most gracious wizard Dobby has ever known!'

Draco was staring at the exchange with such a dubious expression that Harry almost laughed.

'After Lucius "dismissed" Dobby,' Harry explained, 'he worked at Hogwarts. Then after I moved out of the Dursleys', he wanted to come here with me. I told him I didn't need a house-elf but…' Harry shrugged. 'It made him happy. Do _not_ start bossing him around.'

Draco blinked. 'Potter, he's a house-elf. They _live_ to be bossed around.'

'And to be kicked, too, I suppose?' Harry said venomously. 'I don't care what abuse you give them at home; don't think for a minute you can do it here.'

Draco narrowed his eyes at the accusation. 'I don't beat my servants,' he said shortly.

'Whatever, Malfoy.'

'Dobby, have I ever kicked you?' asked Draco.

'Young Master Malfoy has never hurt Dobby!' Dobby squeaked.

'Touché,' Draco said, smirking at the look of mild surprise that flitted across Harry's features. 'And stop calling me "young", you're making me feel eleven all over again.'

'Yes sir, Master Malfoy, sir!'

'Yeah, well, maybe if you stopped acting eleven you'd start to feel older,' Harry muttered, rolling his eyes.

'Yeah, well, maybe if you stopped being such a prat we'd get along better,' Draco countered. Leaning over the table, he peered hopefully down at Dobby. 'So, Dobby, do you remember how Draco likes his coffee?'

Dobby looked positively delighted. 'Dobby remembers exactly how Master Malfoy is liking his coffee! Dobby is making some right away!'

Harry watched incredulously as Dobby tottered over to the bench and began waving his hands, using magic to brew up some more coffee while humming contently. 'I thought I told you _not_ to boss him around?'

Draco looked pleased. 'Potter, do shut up and let the servant do his serving.'

'What kind of eleven-year-old drinks coffee, anyway?'

With a very dramatic rolling of his eyes, Draco replied, 'One that has to put up with foolhardy speccy pillocks whose mere presence put the school population in mortal danger on a daily basis.'

'I didn't—'

'Shall I make a list?' Draco interrupted, ticking each off on his fingers as he recited them. 'Mountain troll. Dragon. Sirius Black. Dementors. _Bigger_ dragon. Polyjuiced psychopath. Not to mention Death Eaters and, on more than one occasion, the Dark Lord. Did I miss anything?'

'A three-headed dog, an Acromantula, and a Basilisk,' Harry told him, raising his eyebrows.

Draco rolled his eyes again. He didn't seem to realise that Harry wasn't joking until several moments passed and Harry still wasn't smiling.

'A _Basilisk?_' Draco asked, aghast. His eyes had gone freakishly wide, and he hadn't even noticed Dobby, standing to attention with a steaming cup of black coffee under his nose. 'A sodding _Basilisk,_ Potter? I mean, everyone thought that was a _joke_.'

'Oh, right,' Harry affirmed, rolling his eyes. 'A joke. I totally forgot. Don't worry, the giant dog and spider were a joke, too,' he finished, smirking at the look on Draco's face. 'Your coffee's getting cold, Malfoy.'

: : :

_In my opinion, we don't devote nearly enough scientific research to finding a cure for jerks._  
- Calvin and Hobbes

: : :

By the time Harry had been able to drag Draco out of his flat, Dobby had made him four cups of coffee, three pieces of toast, poached eggs, and a plate of bacon, sausages, and fried potatoes. It was revolting how Draco accepted the treatment as if he deserved it, and even more ghastly that Dobby couldn't seem to help but appease him.

Then again, Harry thought, Draco had probably been half-raised by Dobby, if house-elves really were as important to wealthy wizarding families as they seemed to be. This was probably the norm for the two of them.

They barely arrived at the Ministry in time, as Harry had refused to let them Apparate such a tiny distance, causing Draco to spend the majority of the short walk recoiling from Muggles that walked too close to him; Draco insisted that he didn't want to catch any strange Muggle diseases, thank you very much. Inside the phone booth, Draco received a silver visitor's badge (which he outright refused to pin to his robes until Harry threatened to attach it to his forehead with a Permanent Sticking Charm) and they had just stepped out into the main entrance hall when bright, blinking lights and an alarming amount of noise obscured their senses.

'It would seem that your fan club is here,' Draco remarked dryly, wincing at the onslaught of flashing bulbs.

Reporters clustered around them in a tightly packed group, Quick-Quotes Quills quivering and cameras snapping.

'Harry Potter! Could you tell us what made you decide to defend Malfoy?'

'Mr Potter, is it true that you blackmailed members of the Wizengamot to get Malfoy acquitted?'

'Mr Malfoy, is it true you used your newly acquired inheritance to bribe your way through the trial?'

'The magical community wants to know why you are sheltering the son of a known Death Eater!'

'Are you denying the claim that you have Harry Potter under the Imperius Curse?'

'Is it true that you are harbouring Draco Malfoy because of a secret love affair during your years at Hogwarts?'

'Yes, darling, it's true,' Draco drawled loudly, slipping an arm around Harry's shoulders. 'Mr Potter and I are deeply in love, and plan to hold the wedding next month.'

This declaration was met with a new surge of energy and questions from the mob of reporters.

Harry ducked out from under his arm, snarling. '_Malfoy_—'

'Don't be ashamed of our love, Harry, we should let the whole world know how we—_ow!_'

Harry still had Draco by the neck of his robes as they managed to get past Ministry security, leaving the mass of reporters and clicking cameras in their wake. As they made their way down the hall to the lift, people in the corridor seemed to sense Harry's irritable mood and practically leapt out of their way.

'You really need to lighten up,' Draco said boisterously, as Harry angrily slammed the grilles closed with a sharp clash. 'I mean, what's the worst they can do? Report that, on top of being a lying, unstable, violent, attention-seeking, self-absorbed, overly dramatic martyr, you're also a raging poof?'

Several other witches and wizards in the lift gave Harry rather alarmed looks.

Harry closed his eyes and willed himself not to hex Draco in plain view of numerous Ministry employees. 'Shut _up_, Malfoy.'

Harry had gotten quite used to overlooking people ogling his forehead, but it was still extremely irritating to have to ignore the stares from the assorted cluster of employees in the lift while Draco reclined, unperturbed, against the opposite wall. After several agonisingly slow moments of descent, a monotone voice announced their arrival.

'Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services,' said the cool female tone, and the grilles opened with a clatter.

Harry jerked his head, wordlessly instructing Draco to exit the lift ahead of him. Eyes coated with disdain, Draco paused only briefly before complying. The trip down the hall was quick, and as the pair of them turned into the Auror Headquarters, Gawain Robards materialised out of nowhere and assaulted Harry before he could manage to get over the threshold.

'Potter, what the _hell_ were you thinking?' A copy of the _Daily Prophet_ fluttered briefly in Harry's vision before it was replaced by Robards's face, contorted so rigorously that it appeared even more narrow than usual. 'You know you should come to me before making any decisions that affect this department!'

Draco winced at the volume of Robards's voice and backed off to the side of the doorway, but Harry held his ground, blocking the entrance, and met his boss's gaze evenly.

'It was my decision to make,' Harry challenged. 'I don't have to check every aspect of my life with you, do I?'

: : :

It was mildly entertaining, to say the least, for Draco to watch Potter be assaulted by his superior in such a fashion. Especially considering the man was nearly a foot shorter than the both of them, and had a very long, rectangular face with far too many lines, so that he looked remarkably like the pipe of an organ—and shouted at about the same volume.

'Any decisions _you_ make affect this department, as you can clearly see from the media party downstairs. Do you know what that means, Potter? It means that any decision of _yours_ is also a decision of _mine_, and you would do damn well to remember it. I don't care how many times you've faced You-Know-Who and lived to brag about it; while you're in this department, you answer to _me_. If that means in every aspect of your life, so be it!'

Before Harry even had a chance to respond, the man whirled on Draco, who took an alarmed step backwards into the wall.

'And _you_,' he snarled, levelling a threatening finger at the blonde. 'You better be worth all this trouble, you arrogant little sod, or I swear I'll have your bollocks off so fast you won't know what's happened!'

Draco, for lack of a better response, cleared his throat. He was very relieved when Robards curled his upper lip in a snarl and stormed away, leaving him and Harry alone by the door.

'Nice guy you're working for,' Draco said dully.

'Shut up,' Harry snapped again.

No doubt due to the scene caused by Sir Pipe Organ, gazes from every corner of the room followed the pair as they moved inside, Draco behind Harry by several paces. It was a very large, square room with a high ceiling and a chequered linoleum floor. The majority of the room was broken into workplaces by high, wood-panel partitions; to Draco, it looked very much like a haphazardly constructed maze, with Aurors and other Ministry personnel dashing in-between cubicles and aisles on hasty errands, bits of parchment and leaflets fluttering in their wake.

Along the back were a series of actual offices, several with opaque glass, obscuring the figures inside; the one to the far left had served the setting in which Draco first confronted Harry. Fixed to the sides of the partitions were posters with wanted witches and wizards, mostly Death Eaters and suspected Voldemort supporters, blinking and sneering at them as they passed open cubicles. Draco grimaced at a particularly large poster of Bellatrix Lestrange that hissed menacingly at him when he walked by.

They followed the main aisle nearly until its end, at which point Harry gestured Draco into a spacious cubicle. The inside was, if possible, more chaotic than the whole of the Headquarters had appeared; every inch of wall space was covered not in posters, but in large diagrams, maps, lists, and large clippings of text. Upon closer inspection, Draco noted that much of it was concerned with the theory of Dark magic, from spells to wards to extremely sinister potions.

There were two desks, side by side, both equally cluttered with piles of parchments, rolled and unrolled, amongst various Dark Detectors. The Sneakoscope on the right-hand desk was whirring quietly, rolling back and forth in small circles. The left desk was up against the wall, where there was a tiny break in diagrams to make way for a _Chudley Cannons_ poster, in which all of the Chasers had gathered in the centre to avoid being overwhelmed by the mass of clippings overlapping the picture.

There was one item on the desk with the Sneakoscope, however, that grabbed Draco's full attention. It was an old edition of the _Daily Prophet_, almost completely obscured by the several other editions strewn on top of it, but the tiny portion of headline visible (_Snitch!_) caught his eye, and he quickly dislodged it from the pile, scanning the article.

Draco stared at it for a very long time.

: : :

Harry had not followed Draco into the cubicle. He was standing just outside, nodding a good morning to people he knew, several of whom were members of the Order. Kingsley Shacklebolt came over to ask him how things were going with Draco, and Arthur Weasley, snorting with mirth, had given Harry an updated _Daily Prophet._ To both Harry's slight dismay and amusement, the headline boldly declared a wedding engagement between himself and Malfoy in large, flashing letters.

He had only been waiting a few minutes when a figure with a familiar head of bushy brown hair emerged from the bustle in the aisle, clutching a long roll of parchment and a quill under her arm. Hermione had remained a couple of inches shorter than Harry; he himself was a good half a foot short of Ron, and her height (or rather, lack thereof) was something Ron habitually enjoyed teasing her about.

However, petite though she may have been, Hermione had lost none of her austerity, and frequently reminded Harry of a tiny version of McGonagall. For once, this was a trait he was glad she possessed, because she was going to need it.

'Morning, Harry,' she said brightly, smiling up at him. 'Long night?'

'Could have been worse,' he admitted, shrugging. 'Was it hard to get the assignment?'

'Not really,' she said. 'Nobody wants anything to do with that snivelling, arrogant, grandiloquent prat, so—'

'You forgot "brilliant", "stunning", and "debonair",' said an icy drawl. 'Nice to see you, too, Granger.'

: : :

On cue, Draco appeared from inside the cubicle behind her just in time to hear the less than complimentary remarks; Hermione spun around so quickly she could have been fastened to a top. Draco was reclining against the edge of the partition with his arms folded, holding a rolled-up _Prophet_ and looking down at her with obvious disdain.

'I can hardly say the same for you,' she snapped, folding her own arms, eyes narrowed.

'Yes, I'm sure it must be a slap in the face for unfortunate accidents like yourself to see wizards of _real_ quality,' Draco drawled, smirking as her hands clenched into fists. 'I suppose that's why you latched onto Potter, here; hoping his assets would rub off. Unfortunately for you, you also partnered with Weasley, who negates any assets at all.'

'Well _you_ would know what slaps to the face are like, wouldn't you, Malfoy?' she snapped back, feigning indifference, although his comments had left her slightly pink. 'Or would you like a reminder?'

'My skin has already suffered enough contact with yours, Mudblood, to befoul it for a lifetime,' Draco replied callously.

Hermione's jaw dropped open in disbelief and several people passing by stopped in their tracks, looking shocked.

Harry started forward, green eyes full of fury. Draco shrank back from the advance, back into the cubicle. Harry and Hermione followed, leaving the nosy, crowded aisle.

'Oh get out of it, Potter,' Draco snapped once the traffic in the aisle outside began to move again, but Harry was still looking homicidal. 'What_?_ She can threaten me with physical violence like some malignant troglodyte and you're _fine_ with that, but Merlin forbid I make perfectly valid point regarding her heritage. You can sod right the fuck off.'

Harry's lips twisted in a snarl. 'You vulgar sonofa—'

'Harry,' Hermione said desperately, cutting him off. 'This is really not helping. As for _you_,' she snapped, turning back to Draco, 'you'd do best to watch your mouth, you nasty, arrogant, self-absorbed little—'

'And _this_ is helping, how?' Harry interjected.

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, sucked in a breath, and closed it again, doing a very good impression of an angry blowfish.

'Sorry, Harry,' she said, exhaling heavily. 'I just… _urgh…_ he makes me so—so—'

'Hot and bothered, this much we can see,' Draco finished derisively. 'But unless you actually have something constructive to do here, I suggest you carry on like the ninny you are and allow us to get to work.'

Hermione closed her eyes and took a long, steadying breath as she turned back to face Draco again. After a moment, brown eyes opened and glared reproachfully at him.

'As a matter of fact, I do,' she replied coolly. 'As a member of the Ministry's Inquisitorial Division, I will be the one interrogating you.'

With enormous effort, Draco managed to resist recoiling again. His eyes narrowed, darkening. 'Inquisitorial Division?'

'Sound familiar?' she asked, lips forming a rather nasty smile. 'You didn't think that foul woman's Inquisitorial Squad was an _original_ idea, did you?'

He'd hardly admit it, but Draco supposed that this made sense; Dolores Umbridge _was_ the kind of woman who would create a junior version of a Ministry department inside Hogwarts under her reign of power.

'Of all the sods they could have sent, they had to send their resident Mudblood,' he sneered, taking advantage of his height to glare down at her. 'Why am I not surprised.'

Harry's temper visibly flared at the use of the curse again, but Hermione laid one of her hands over his consolingly.

'It's alright, Harry,' she said, before turning back to Draco and adopting a much more professional tone. 'Mr Malfoy, if you are going to insist on behaving in such a loutish manner, I will be more than happy to produce the contract between yourself and Mr Potter, and further assist you in perusing the clause where it states, very specifically, that _any_ unnecessary aggravation you cause is grounds for your immediate removal to a secure facility.'

Draco stared at her, struck speechless. Even Harry looked slightly taken aback.

'Oh, yes,' she said, smiling nastily at Draco's obvious disbelief. 'I have read the terms of the agreement _very_ carefully. In fact, I was the one who edited and amended the final version accepted by you and your attorneys. I know it up, down, backwards, and sideways, and if you don't watch _every_ step you take, then those are only some of the directions I can screw you in, and so help me, I _will_.'

Harry was staring at her with what looked like both awe and mild admiration.

Draco's eyes, if possible, narrowed further. He was well aware of the fine print—his father had been thorough in his legal training, and Draco understood the importance of understanding every statement made on a contract to the letter. Harry, of course, had been enough of a dunce to overlook the miniscule points that had to do with his behaviour; but Draco had not been expecting the Mudblood Granger to have access to it, much less have a say in the final amendments herself.

If Draco _had_ known, he would have burned the bond and demanded a new one.

'Is there a problem?' Hermione asked him mildly when he didn't respond.

Draco inhaled through his nose, closing his eyes and willing the sudden torrent of rage tearing at his insides to subside. 'Why you?' he demanded, lip curling as he fixed her with a murderous glare.

Hermione smiled at him. 'Isn't it obvious? As a former acquaintance, I was the _logical_ choice from my department. Our previous correlations not only provide me with a general understanding of your _amiable_ character for this enquiry,' she continued, somewhat sarcastically, 'but provide a firm basis for our relationship as colleagues.'

'_Colleagues?_' Draco practically spat the word. 'I don't know what bloody version of our contract you're reading, Granger—'

'The version where it unmistakably refers to your cooperation with the Ministry as a professional union between two parties,' she persisted, re-adorning the overly professional tone. 'More specifically, a sanctioned trade between yourself and my department, which will process and disclose information deemed legitimate to Auror Headquarters, where they will handle any proceedings. Until you've upheld your end of the bargain, you're officially working for the Ministry, under my department and supervision, as well as Harry's.'

She paused, letting her words sink in before taking a step closer to Draco and lowering her voice to a much more hostile tone. 'And just because _he's_ been generous enough to see some prospect of you being useful, don't think for a minute that I won't have your right to breathe outside of Azkaban revoked the first opportunity you give me. Are we _clear,_ Malfoy?'

'Irrefutably,' Draco snarled through his teeth. He had otherwise not so much as twitched at her words and his face had been impassive throughout her speech, but the earlier subsided rage began to boil dangerously.

Harry made a small '_Ahem_' noise in his throat as the two of them continued to glare daggers at one another. He did not bother to remove the smug smirk he was wearing, however, still clearly impressed with Hermione's attention to detail. 'We should probably get started before Robards finds another excuse to lay into me.'

'Yes, we should,' Hermione agreed, taking her eyes off Draco. 'They don't want Malfoy anywhere there isn't at least a dozen Aurors, as half of the staff is convinced he's a Death Eater, and tattoo or no tattoo I can't say I blame them. So we'll be using the offices up here, if that's alright.'

Harry shrugged. 'Yeah, that's fine.'

Hermione nodded and gathered her rolls of parchment, squeezing out of the cubicle and into the aisle.

For a moment, Draco actually considered Azkaban a small price to pay for saying what was on his mind. Sodding Mudblood filth. _Are we clear?_ About what? That you're a know-it-all, anal retentive tart who—

'Malfoy.'

Harry's tone was sharp; he was standing in front of Draco, arms folded, apparently trying to appear intimidating. Hermione had already moved ahead of them down the corridor, packet of parchment precariously balanced in her arms as she moved through the other Ministry busybodies.

'Potter,' he countered, his gaze settling back on Harry's, which was boring into him with a contained sort of fury.

'If you so much as _think_ that word again, I don't give a sodding piss who's around, I will make you regret it.'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'Very dramatic, Potter, but just the fact that you exist makes me regret that my breathing is involuntary.'

'You're an arsehole, Malfoy.'

'Go alert the media, I'm sure they're still waiting downstairs,' Draco said, bypassing Harry and following Hermione down the aisle towards the offices.

Draco smirked as he felt Harry's murderous glare bore into his back as he cut his way through the crowd. He found that most people moved immediately out of his way, throwing him suspicious, nasty looks, which served to increase the smug twist of his lips.

'In here,' Hermione ordered briskly, unlocking the closest office with a tap of her wand. 'Take a seat.'

The room was empty except for a long, dark table and four straight-backed chairs. Draco tried to position himself on the far end, as far as humanly possible from the other chairs. Hermione waited for Harry to come inside before following, closing the door and turning to the clear windows; a wave of her wand and a muttered '_Occulto_' turned the glass opaque.

She and Harry took seats opposite Draco, side by side, not making an effort to close the distance he'd put between them. Hermione removed a small, corked vial containing a small amount of what appeared to be ordinary water. The sight made him grimace.

Raising her eyebrows, Hermione placed the vial on the table between them. 'You know the drill, Malfoy.'

'You _do_ know that the belladonna in that is poisonous, even when diluted,' Draco said, eying the Veritaserum with distaste.

'I've carefully monitored your intake,' Hermione said nonchalantly. 'You can have a few more doses, as long as they're minimal. It's only a drop, it won't kill you.'

Draco's grimace became more pronounced. One drop of Veritaserum was enough for nearly an hour of use; several millilitres were enough to put the average person into a coma, and any more than that often proved deadly. In the past, many prisoners had swallowed a fatal amount of Veritaserum in order to avoid being interrogated; therefore, it had become common practice to dilute the truth serum. Mixed with a mouthful of water, enough of the potion would enter the prisoner's system to do the job without the side effect of being lethal.

'Hearing that from you is not reassuring,' he told her, uncapping the vial and draining it. The dose was so small he couldn't even taste it. He had barely gotten over the flavour of stale water before Harry's patience wore out.

'So,' Harry offered.

When he didn't elaborate, Draco said, 'I suppose you want to know all my dirty little secrets about the Dark Lord.'

'Something like that, yeah,' said Harry.

'Anything in particular?'

'Everything?'

'Oh, is that all?' Draco asked. 'Well, for one, the man is a _severe_ sadist. You should see what he does to Wormtail—he picks on him constantly, it's his favourite pastime. What's more, his preferred way of getting information out of people is by locking them in a basement with Greyback for a few nights; unless, of course, one of those nights happens to be a full moon, in which case they don't do much talking after that—' Harry cleared his throat loudly, and Draco raised an eyebrow. 'Well, you said _everything_. It's rather a broad spectrum of topics, Potter.'

'Fine,' Harry said. 'What do you know about the Horcruxes?'

Hermione glanced at Harry, looking worried, but didn't object.

Draco drummed his fingers on his lap. 'This might not be the best time or place for that,' he said finally.

'Oh, and why not?' Harry snapped, lips twisting into what was almost a formidable sneer. 'Because you're actually full of it and don't know anything?'

'No, Potter,' Draco said tiredly. 'Because considering we're in a building that even my _father_ was able to infiltrate after you were screaming your head off that he was a Death Eater, I wouldn't exactly consider it a secure place to discuss a topic of such high calibre.'

'He's right, Harry,' Hermione interjected quickly before Harry could object. She was watching Draco very carefully. 'If you don't want the Inquisitorial Department all over it, like last time… It's something for… later.'

Slowly, something resembling comprehension dawned in Harry's emerald eyes.

'Last time?' Draco incited.

'None of your bloody business,' Harry snapped at Draco, before turning back to Hermione. 'Alright, fine, you handle it then.'

Hermione made a show of parchment-shuffling and dipping her quill in the open ink bottle before returning her gaze to Draco.

'Well, first of all, do you know or have any idea whatsoever where he is?'

'He?' Draco asked, exasperated. 'Do _either_ of you know how to properly interrogate?'

'You know who I mean,' Hermione said calmly. 'Voldemort.'

Draco flinched violently at the name, his hands clenching.

'You know,' he said shortly, 'how uptight you lot are about the word Mud—'

'Don't say it,' Harry growled warningly.

'Then don't use _his name_,' Draco growled back. 'Or we can sod the bloody clause technicalities.'

Hermione nodded. 'Fair enough. Answer the question.'

'No,' he answered truthfully. 'He moves his base of operations, and often. From what I know he's never in the same place for more than a couple of months, and constantly in and out.'

'Why?'

'Because he's worked with enough morons to know that if you want something done, you do it yourself,' Draco said, rolling his eyes. 'Would _you_ trust a bunch of power-hungry minions with anything of vital importance after all the disasters they managed against your teenage Boy Wonder here?'

Hermione blinked, and then made a note on her parchment.

'I suppose not,' she said, not looking up until she had finished writing. 'Do you have any idea why, after six years of attacks, he seems to have—for the moment anyway—lost interest in pursuing Harry?'

'Ah, what's this? Potter not getting publicity?' Draco sneered, and Hermione gave him a warning glare. 'Because he got what he needed from Potter, I'd imagine. I'm sure he'd just as happily kill your Saviour here if he had the chance, but he has much more important things he could be spending his time on.'

'Such as…?'

Draco sighed and folded his hands in his lap, leaning back in his chair.

'Do you even remember what his original goal was? Before killing Harry Potter?' he asked, annoyed that he was having to spell it out. 'Do you honestly think he's wreaking havoc on the wizarding world just to kill some speccy pillock who's nothing more than a thorn in his side? You all act as if Potter is the most important thing in this war, and You-Know-Who will stop at nothing to destroy him—he was counting on that, and it's working.'

'You're saying Harry's a cover?'

'He was from the moment the Dark Lord recovered his full power,' Draco said, ignoring Harry's narrowed gaze. 'You've all been giving attention to the wrong target.'

Hermione had left her quill poised, dripping ink on her parchment, as if she had forgotten about it. 'So what is the target?'

'Who,' Draco corrected, 'is what you should be asking.'

'If you're just going to lead me in circles, Malfoy—'

Draco sighed heavily. 'Look, Granger, it's really quite simple. So simple, in fact, I'm bloody astonished no one in the entire Ministry has been intelligent enough to notice that You-Know-Who lying low is much more worrisome situation than if he was marching through the streets casting Cruciatus on pedestrians.

'Thanks to Potter here, he lost more support than he ever anticipated. When he tried to kill Potter the first time, many of his supporters were thrown in Azkaban, and most of them died there, or went too insane to be of any use. When he came at him again while he was at Hogwarts, Potter not only _publicly announced_ the names of those he knew were supporters, but also managed to thwart many of them long enough to land them in Azkaban _again_, or worse, kill them in the struggle. And as I'm sure you both are aware, he is not the most tolerant of overlords, and has killed many of his own supporters himself, both as punishment for failure and as a warning to those still in his service.'

'He needs to recruit,' Hermione said, nodding. 'We already knew that. So what?'

'So, gathering support takes _time_. He can't expect to take on the Ministry, much less Muggle forces—which, however crude, still have the ability of being troublesome if he's severely outnumbered. Furthermore,' Draco said, pausing to take a breath, 'he needs resources. Information. Blackmail. Ransom. That's how he works. And let me tell you, that sort of strategy is extremely efficient when put into play. It just takes a little more time and effort to set up.'

'Yeah, and you'd know all about blackmail, wouldn't you?' Harry said savagely, while Hermione scribbled furiously on her parchment. 'Lucius was pretty good at it.'

'My father was _spectacular_ at it,' Draco corrected, unruffled. 'That's why I know he's doing it, and that unless you lot start interfering, he's going to make it impossible for you to get the upper hand.'

'You're saying he's breaking the foundations,' Hermione said, looking up. 'Trying to crumble the system from beneath.'

'Something like that,' Draco said, nodding. 'But I don't think you've grasped the severity of the situation.'

Hermione's eyes narrowed. 'What do you mean?'

'Do you think he's going to stop with Britain? With Europe, even? Do you really think that America, China, and Russia, not to mention the multitude of other nations of the world, aren't going to notice that something's amiss? Mass genocide tends to be pretty hard to overlook.'

'We've already made contact with other wizarding governments around the world about the threat of Vol—sorry, You-Know-Who—'

'Other _wizarding_ governments? Granger, are you all that bloody dense? His goal is pure-blood wizards _prevailing_, to prevent the magic in our blood from becoming diluted, and ultimately, lost. To end the persecution and seclusion of wizardkind by making us the majority—the ruling class, if you will—of this planet. There is only _one_ way to ensure that, and that's to remove the pollutants.'

'Remove the pollutants?' Hermione repeated, quill forgotten again. 'You mean _Muggles?_'

Draco just looked at her; she blinked.

'He means to exterminate _all_ Muggles?'

'Is it really that hard to believe?' Draco asked.

'It's beyond hard to believe,' Hermione said, shaking her head. 'To do something like that, he'd need –'

'An army,' Harry supplied. The anger at Draco that had been smouldering throughout the interview was gone, and he was looking at him like he'd never seen him before. 'And years of blackmail, spying, and recruiting.'

'It's absurd,' Hermione said, shaking her head. 'We're talking about billions—not millions, _billions_—of people here. And even _if_ he had the means to attempt it, once he started here, other Muggles are going to notice. Like you said—Russia, China, the U.S.; they'd notice large numbers of Muggles being killed—it'd be like the Holocaust all over again. Other countries would interfere.'

'They would,' Draco agreed. 'Plebeian as they may be, even Muggles aren't that dense, and if I recall, they didn't take very kindly to Hitler. It's bound to be worse when they discover that it's wizards, not other Muggles, doing the massacring. Unless… .'

'Unless?' Harry asked, eyes narrowed again.

'…they were distracted,' Hermione said, finally comprehending the gravity of Draco's words.

Draco nodded, acknowledging that, perhaps, Hermione may actually have a brain.

'Tell me, Granger, when's the last time your Inquisitorial Department ran checks on the Muggle leaders of the world?'

'Checks? For what?' Harry asked, looking at Hermione.

Hermione was still staring at Draco when she answered, very quietly, with, 'The Imperius Curse.'

Harry looked back at Draco. 'What? What good would that do him?'

'Harry,' Hermione said, as Draco rolled his eyes again. 'The only way Muggles wouldn't notice other Muggles being killed—'

'Is if other Muggles were the ones doing the killing,' Draco finished. 'Why kill Muggles when you can make them kill themselves?'

Harry stared at Draco, perplexed, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

'Are you saying he's going to start a Muggle war?'

'Oldest trick in the book, Potter,' Draco said. 'Divide and conquer.'

: : :

Just before noon, Draco's attorneys had turned up once again. Due to the head of the family passing, the Malfoy's Gringotts vault, assorted estates and all material possessions were technically Draco's by right as well as per Lucius' will, but Draco still had to hack through an enormous amount of paperwork in order to make it official. Arthur had volunteered to supervise Draco during the process, giving Harry the afternoon off, for which he'd been very grateful.

'Do you think Malfoy's right?' Harry asked Hermione. She had accompanied him for lunch, as usual, but had been oddly quiet. 'About him starting a Muggle war?'

Hermione idly tapped the table top with her wand, chewing on her bottom lip before answering.

'It's hard to say,' she said finally. 'It seems far-fetched, but… at the same time, it makes an unsettling amount of sense, doesn't it?'

Harry nodded. 'It would certainly explain why no Death Eaters or Dementors have tried to break down my door yet.'

'Still, I have to wonder how he knows so much, if he hasn't been involved with the Death Eaters since Hogwarts… I suppose his father probably knew about this, Voldemort would have had to have been planning it for _ages_, but it's still quite dodgy…'

She trailed off, draining the last of her tea before looking up at Harry with a slightly jovial expression. 'I can already imagine Ron having a go at this. When does he get back?'

At her words, guilt grabbed hold of Harry's insides and began twisting them violently.

Harry, having always excelled at Defence Against the Dark Arts (and no doubt with some help from his reputation) had completed his Auror training in just under three years. Ron had taken the standard four, as most Aurors do, for his full certification. As both an initiation and a reward for apprenticing and training for so long, all newly licensed Aurors were assigned to priority cases immediately upon graduation; Ron was still away on his, a rather secretive mission involving vampires in Russia. He'd written to both Harry and Hermione only twice during the month he had been gone, promising in his most recent letter that he'd be returning soon.

Although Harry had enlisted Hermione's advice and assistance with clearing Malfoy, he had been unable to find a way to break it to Ron. Hermione had told him to write anyway, because it would be better for Ron to hear about it from Harry, rather than on his own while he was away, from a less reliable source. Harry had agreed, and had promised he would write a letter the following day.

Hermione's smile faltered when Harry didn't answer. She suddenly looked very worried.

'Harry… you _did_ tell Ron, didn't you?'

: : :


	4. Chapter Three: Pop Go The Weasels

Chapter 3  
**Pop Go the Weasels**

_You are so lame  
You always disappoint me  
It's kind of like our running joke  
But it's really not funny  
_  
—Ani DiFranco, _Dilate_

: : :

Ronald Weasley liked to think he was a very faithful companion.

Ever since that fateful day on the Hogwarts Express ten years prior, he and Harry had been the best of mates. Adolescent scuffles and ephemeral misunderstandings aside, they were inseparable; Harry had always been there for Ron, Ron had always been there for Harry, and when the two of them were acting too childish to get over themselves, Hermione had always managed to hold them together.

It was nice to have friends you never had to hide things from; ever since Harry had supported Ron in playing Keeper for Gryffindor, Ron had decided that there was nothing he couldn't tell Harry. He would tell Harry things he couldn't even trust Hermione with — things like how much he absolutely adored her, even when she was being an unbearable know-it-all, or how much he both admired and hated that sod Viktor Krum, or about the Complete Accident with that Ravenclaw girl during their seventh year.

He liked to think that Harry did the same; of course, Ron knew there were _some_ things that Harry would always keep to himself. Things that he saw in his dreams that were too disturbing to recite, or anything to do with Sirius (whom Harry never spoke about to anyone anymore), or things that only Harry had experienced with Voldemort, and which were too painful to talk about. Ron knew there were things like that, but Ron also understood why Harry would never speak of these things — because doing so would only make Harry feel worse – and Ron respected his decision to let them go unmentioned.

Besides, Harry would tell Ron about anything that was _important_ — Harry wouldn't hide something from Ron that Ron needed to know.

_Deserved_ to know.

The _Daily Prophet_ that had arrived minutes previously lay in shreds on the floor. The delivery owl hooted woefully, leg still held out, waiting for Ron to pay for the newspaper. The charge for such a long flight was about triple that of getting the _Prophet_ owled to him in London, and he grudgingly tucked a Sickle into the leather pouch.

Ron was still in Russia, on his very first assignment as a fully-qualified Auror. He was far northeast of Moscow, very close to Murmansk, in a small wizarding village called Norgradina. A local had told him that the name meant 'garden of the north', but that was hardly appropriate, in Ron's opinion; even though it was July, it had been dark-grey overcast for weeks, and the place was so cold that when it rained it left him freezing, as if he'd just taken a dunk in a frozen-over lake.

Today was no exception. A thunderstorm of spectacular proportions was raging outside his window, slapping the glass with sheet after sheet of heavy rain. Occasionally, a bolt of lightning would strike the horizon, briefly illuminating a backdrop of the small, one-story buildings that composed the town.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon but, considering how dark it was, you would have been forgiven for thinking it was later. Ron knew exactly what time it was because it took the post owl the same amount of time every day to deliver the _Prophet_ all the way out here.

The thunderstorms were part of the reason Aurors had been sent to the location. With the sun out of commission for weeks on end, vampire attacks in the area had sky-rocketed, on wizards and Muggles alike. Vampires had become more of a problem since Voldemort's return – they seemed to be growing stronger now that they had the Dark Lord's support, and were openly feeding on human blood.

Before Headquarters had sent him out here, Ron had been given a three-week intensive course on vampire biology and behaviour, in order to prepare him to help lead the operation. He had learned a lot of things they _didn't_ teach you at Hogwarts, things that would have been bound to make him pay more attention in History of Magic, because they were so sinister and disturbing and, in a twisted sort of way, extremely cool.

Like how vampires were in fact _not_ allergic to silver, or crosses, and that the only reason they detested garlic was because of the smell, and that if you presented any of these things to a vampire that was determined to kill you, it would likely laugh in your face before draining you dry.

Vampires could be killed in two ways, and only two ways: sunlight and beheading. A stake through the heart, although a popular Muggle theory, was ineffective; vampires were technically undead, just a step up from Inferi. Their bodily organs were useless, and a stake through the heart might be unpleasant and a bit disorientating, but nowhere near deadly.

Their nervous system was the only part of the body that was technically alive; it was what kept them thinking, feeling, craving and killing, and also why beheading was an effective mode of killing them.

For, unlike Inferi, vampires could still utilise the basic senses — hearing, sight, smell, taste and touch.

Taste was important — a vampire could taste the quality of blood more precisely than any other creature alive, so expertly that in Medieval times they were used to test the purity of blood of wealthy wizarding families before any commitment was made regarding the betrothal of important heirs. Touch, too, played a large part in their internal social behaviour. Pain and pleasure were taken to extremes – though they often did not distinguish between the two. Coming across a group of feeding vampires tended to look like a very sadomasochistic orgy.

For decades, vampires had been viewed as very weak, stupid creatures that weren't to be feared by wizards; they were easy to fend off, and were content to feed on the blood of small, non-magical animals, which by wizarding law was the only blood allowed them if they wished to avoid execution.

Human blood, since it was so similar to the blood that once ran through their bodies, made vampires strong; _magical_ human blood made them incredibly powerful. The vampires of legend, the ones from which the fear and terror of the species had originally stemmed, were those that had fed on the blood of wizards. If they fed on magical blood long enough, it made them extremely aggressive, and nearly invincible.

Since the Ministry had set down the laws, however, these vampires had slowly vanished or diminished, and vampire-hunting had died out, as vampires were no longer a threat. Without the numbers or the strength, they had no power to stand against the wizarding world.

Voldemort had changed all of that dramatically.

Ron grimaced at the file on his desk. There was a picture attached to it of a very pretty girl, with long, dark hair and hazel eyes. She was playing shyly with her hair, blushing whenever he stared, and hiding behind the picture frame. Her name had been Margaret, and she was the daughter of the wizard mayor of the town.

She had gone missing three days ago; yesterday, Ron had found her body, bound by the wrists and ankles to a bed in an abandoned shack in the woods. She had been stripped nude, her skin was ghostly white, and she'd had pairs of bite marks scattered around her neck and the insides of her thighs and elbows.

Ron had vomited after departing the premises, and it was not the first time this assignment had made him sick. It was disgusting and disturbing and he could barely sleep at night, because he was afraid of what he'd remember when he closed his eyes. He wanted to just get it over with, and get the hell home. He did not belong here. He belonged with Harry and Hermione, fighting Dark wizards, who were nasty in their own right but at least were human.

He had been looking forward to going home that afternoon. He was supposed to leave at five, just after the last shift was over. After that, he was free to Apparate back to his home and take a well-deserved weekend off.

Ron left a note that apologised for leaving an hour early, explaining that something at the Ministry had required his _immediate_ attention.

: : :

'Sign here.'

Draco grimaced, dipping his quill in the ink once more, and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the parchment, which was quickly replaced with another.

'And here.'

If there was any possibility of paperwork being lethal, Draco was sure his life was in immediate danger. He was up to his neck in it and felt like he was slowly suffocating.

'And here….'

Death by bureaucracy. What a horrible way to go.

'Isn't there someone I can pay to do this for me?' Draco asked desperately. One of his lawyers weakly rolled his eyes as he handed Draco another roll of parchment to autograph.

The ends of his fingers were red and raw from holding the quill for so long. It would be easier to relax his fingers and just scribble his name, but he did not want to see the look on his mother's face when she saw the deeds of their estate returned with sloppy signatures on them.

And unfortunately for Draco, charmed copies of a single signature were not an option. Official deeds and contracts were often designed to only accept a written signature, in order to make the contracts legally as well as magically binding. _Why_ they had to have so many different versions of the same bond for him to sign, however, was a mystery to him. He was beginning to think his lawyers had sadistic tendencies.

Finished with another signature, Draco dropped his quill and sucked mournfully on his index finger, which was throbbing painfully now. He could have cried with happiness as he saw his attorneys, instead of handing him another stack, begin packing away the rolls of parchment.

'We'll have the originals stored in your Gringotts vault,' Ricardo told him, standing. He then turned to Arthur, who had spent the entire ordeal seated on a sofa in the back of the office, reading through the _Daily Prophet_. 'All right, Weasley, that's it for today. I'll owl if we require anything else.'

Arthur nodded as Draco muttered, 'Thank Merlin. What time is it?'

Arthur glanced at his wrist. 'Four thirty; we should go. Harry will be back soon.'

Draco felt as if someone had stolen his entire afternoon. Had he really been mucking about with red tape for _five hours?_ He hadn't even eaten since breakfast!

'I'm hungry,' he moaned.

'Yes, me too,' Arthur agreed. 'Would you like to get something before we — '

Draco cut him short with a deliberately loud clearing-of-the-throat.

'Seen in public with a Weasley? Are you mad?' he drawled melodramatically. 'If my father were alive, he'd have a stroke. Thanks, but I think I'll starve a bit longer.'

Arthur gave Draco a rather reproachful look, but prudently chose not to argue.

Taking the lift back to Level Two was uneventful aside from the occasional glare or wary look thrown Draco's way. Arthur led him back into Auror Headquarters, down the same aisle to the cubicle Draco had been in that morning.

Draco had hardly taken a step into the space when something hard connected with his jaw, knocking him backwards into Arthur.

It might have been intelligent to take into account that Ron Weasley had grown to nearly a foot taller than Draco had. It also may have been wise to consider that he was on thin ice as it was, treading just outside of Azkaban. It probably would have been common sense to realise he was _still_ in Auror Headquarters, unarmed, and about to attack an Auror under the nose of his father.

But Draco was not feeling very intelligent or wise or sensible at the moment, as most of his mind was concerned with sinking his fist as far as it could go into said Auror's face.

As luck would have it, Kingsley was close enough to hear the commotion and come to Arthur's aid as he tried to pry the two apart.

'I am going to _kill_ you,' Ron snarled through his teeth, wrestling his father, who seemed to be having a difficult time restraining his arms. 'You slimy, good-for-nothing bastard, I swear — '

Whatever Ron was about to swear, Draco never found out, for Hermione and Harry chose that exact moment to enter the cubicle. They were whispering furiously about something or other, but stopped dead when they saw the scene before them.

Arthur had managed to get hold of Ron's arms and pull him back towards the desks, and Kingsley likewise had one arm around Draco's shoulders and his free hand on his wand, which he held poised under Draco's neck. Draco was looking mutinous and sporting a fresh bloody lip; Ron, glaring at Draco, was as furiously red as his hair and had a large bruise forming under his right eye.

Ron's glare turned away from Draco and fixed itself on Harry instead, as he finished, ' — right after I kill _you_.'

'Er,' said Harry.

'Oh, bugger,' said Hermione.

: : :

_A positive attitude may not solve all your problems,  
but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort._  
– Herm Albright

: : :

Draco was examining his reflection in the glass, grimacing at the bright red split in his bottom lip.

Not for the first time, Harry offered, 'I can fix that, if you want.'

'If I had my wand, I could fix it myself,' Draco snapped.

Harry shrugged and said, 'Just trying to help.'

'And as your ability to help anything is about as proficient as your aptitude at making potions,' replied Draco sharply, 'kindly _don't_.'

'All right,' Hermione proclaimed, suddenly coming through the door and swinging it closed behind her. 'I think he'll be okay. It's a good thing Kingsley was nearby; nobody else is quite sure what happened, so there were no awkward questions to deal with. Malfoy, I can fix that if you — '

'Piss off.'

'Fine, be stubborn,' she said dismissively, turning back to Harry. 'Anyway, Ron's a bit calmer, but I think he still needs some time to settle down. He's really angry with you, Harry. I _told_ you to write to him.'

'I meant to,' Harry lied, looking guilty. Hermione raised an eyebrow. 'Oh, come on, Hermione, what was I supposed to say? _"Hi, Ron, we miss you heaps and can't wait 'til you get back. Oh, and by the way, remember Malfoy? Yeah, he's back, and guess what? Even though he's a complete prat, I'm going to help keep his ungrateful, pure-blood arse out of Azkaban."_'

'I _am_ right here, you know!' Draco snarled, shooting Harry a filthy look.

'Do me a favour and don't remind me,' Harry snapped back.

'I'll do you a bloody favour — '

'If you both are _quite_ finished,' Hermione snapped in such a good impression of McGonagall that both boys winced. 'Really, have either of you grown up at all?'

A short silence enveloped the room, during which Draco continued to favour his lip, licking it and prodding it mournfully with his index finger. Hermione moved to sit beside Harry, who was glaring past Draco at the opaque glass.

'They've called a meeting tonight,' she said quietly after a moment.

Harry lowered his voice and asked, 'Tonight? Why?'

'Oh, you know _why_,' she said, shooting Draco a look. 'I told Minerva we should wait until the weekend, but she insisted on tonight… Ron isn't the only one who wants answers, Harry.'

Harry sighed heavily. 'Yeah, all right. I'll ask Lupin if he can take Malfoy tonight, then.'

'Actually…' Hermione trailed off, biting her lip. 'Minerva thinks it'd be a good idea for Malfoy to come.'

'_What?_ You want to _bring_ him?'

'Well, Marius and Remus think you should, and I — '

'Let a possible spy into a meeting, _great_ idea,' Harry hissed.

'Could you two speak up?' Draco said loudly. Both Hermione and Harry looked up suddenly to find him leaning against the glass, arms folded, and watching them with a cold stare. 'It's rather hard to hear you when you lower your voices like that.'

Hermione's mouth set into a thin line before she turned back to Harry. 'Anyway, I think it's a good idea, too. Marius has something he wants to test and I know Moody wants to ask Malfoy a few questions, so I promised them we'd bring him along.'

Harry looked like he wanted to argue further, but instead nodded heavily. 'Fine, whatever, as long as — '

Harry stopped speaking with an abrupt yelp, so loud and sudden that both Hermione and Draco jumped at the noise. Harry had fallen to the floor on his knees, then doubled-over, and was holding himself up with one hand, clutching his forehead with the other.

'Harry!' Hermione gasped in alarm. She knelt by his side, one hand on his back and her eyes wide with worry. 'Oh, gosh, _Harry_.'

Draco watched the scene quietly. He had heard a lot about Harry's random spaz attacks, but had never personally witnessed one before; Harry had sometimes collapsed in public, but by the time Draco or anyone else figured out what had caused the commotion, it'd already been over. For quite some time, Draco had believed that Potter had fabricated these stories to get himself more attention, or sympathy, or possibly both.

But watching Harry on the ground, with every muscle in his body drawn taut, eyes screwed shut and jaw set to keep himself from crying out again, clawing at his forehead, Draco was finding it very hard to convince himself that it was just an act.

Not that he'd ever _admit_ to thinking that.

Harry swore quietly, letting out a large gasp and rubbing his scar. Hermione was still kneeling beside him, and brushed his hair away from his forehead with her left hand, then, holding up the middle and index fingers of her right, she muttered a spell softly; her fingertips glowed a faint, pale yellow and she applied the light to the scar on Harry's forehead, tracing it. The effect was immediate; Harry's shoulders relaxed, and he sat back weakly, looking rather pale. He looked feverish, too, as if someone had just awoken him from some horrible nightmare.

'He's furious,' Harry said hoarsely. 'I haven't — not for — _bloody hell_, he's angry….'

Draco felt something sharp slice at his chest, leaving a long streak of discomfort there. He rubbed at it unconsciously.

'I guess Ron isn't the only one who's mad you're back,' Hermione said matter-of-factly, lifting her eyes to Draco.

Harry was watching him too, but differently than before; if it didn't seem so utterly daft to imagine so, he would have thought Harry actually looked worried.

When in doubt, be sarcastic.

'So, is it always this dramatic?' Draco asked snidely, relaxing against the glass. 'Or was that just for my benefit?'

: : :

Narrowed, infinitely dark eyes stared fixedly at the newspaper. A dark circle appeared in the middle of the paper, slowly smouldering — the longer the eyes glared, the larger the burn became, until there was a sizeable, charcoal-lined hole in the centre of the paper and the smell of burning permeated the room.

The paper eventually burned away, fluttering to the floor in small, black flakes. Voldemort took a very slow, steady breath, closing his eyes briefly and returning his hands to his sides. His servant remained kneeling before him, practically cowering.

The Dark Lord did not have to voice his discontent. The rage was literally pouring off him in waves, suffocating the small room with his fury.

'Rookwood.'

'Yes, my Lord?' the kneeling man offered shakily.

Voldemort had never taken bad news very well, and he had received a monumental amount of it over the past two decades. And unfortunately for Rookwood, he had already had a very, very long day that, although slightly rewarding, had also been extremely aggravating.

The Cruciatus Curse had evidently not completely worked its way out of Rookwood's system, as there was still a slight twitch to his movements. The sight of his discomfort somewhat abated Voldemort's irritation.

'Find Severus,' Voldemort commanded. 'Quickly, and send him to me.'

'Yes, my Lord. I will bring him to you immediately.' The relief in Rookwood's voice was clear as he stood up, nearly tripping over himself in his haste as he fled the room.

Not two minutes later, the door opened again.

'My Lord,' Severus said from the doorway, his head inclined respectfully. 'You wished to see me?'

'You know why I have called you,' Voldemort said, taking an idle step forward. The charcoal remnants of the article crunched under his boot. 'Come here, and close the door.'

Severus obeyed quietly. He did not have to confirm or deny the Dark Lord's presumption; it was quite obvious why he had been summoned so suddenly.

'You were correct about the boy, as usual,' Voldemort continued as the door closed, 'although it seems we have both underestimated the depths of his cowardice.'

Severus stopped several feet from Voldemort, hands clasped behind his back, and waited for his cue to speak. Voldemort folded his arms and twisted the sole of his boot, effectively turning the remains of the paper below it into a black smudge on the floor.

Since Voldemort did not continue speaking, Severus said, 'He did not have any connections within the Order. There was no indication that he would seek sanctuary with them.' He paused, and added carefully, 'From Potter, of all people.'

'Potter.' Voldemort spat the word, his lips forming a snarl. His eyes, always so dark, flared with his anger, glowing red for the briefest of moments, illuminating snake-like pupils.

It was a testament to Severus' character that even in the face of his master's anger he did not flinch. Instead, he produced a small book from his robes, and placed it on the table beside them. Voldemort eyed it without moving to pick it up. It was a very simple leather-bound book, brown, ageing, and covered in soot. The cover was blank save for a single, elaborate 'M' that had been embossed centrally at the top.  
'Perhaps it is not such bad news after all,' Severus offered knowingly.

It was a sure sign of confidence on his part, to presume to know anything in front of the Dark Lord; a confidence that had proven him to be the most loyal and worthy of Voldemort's subjects so far. In any other case, such confidence would be punished — after all, how dare anyone assume they knew what pleased the Dark Lord and what did not? Voldemort would not let himself be addressed as an equal so carelessly.

Still, it was somewhat comforting to Voldemort to know that at least _one_ of the men that had earned his trust wasn't a complete coward. And for that reason, Severus' self-assurance was excused.

'So it can be done?' Voldemort asked.

'Yes,' Severus answered. 'But the charm is a difficult one… the magic is much older than I first believed… it will take quite some time to prepare.'

'How long?'

'A full lunar cycle, at least,' Severus answered. He carefully added, 'Give or take an extra week, depending on… availability.'

'Whatever you require is at your disposal,' Voldemort said, unconcerned. 'You know this.'

'Yes, my Lord. There is one thing, and it is the most important,' he admitted. 'I need the boy.'

After a moment, Severus added, 'Alive.'

Voldemort did not answer immediately. He was contemplating the words, eyes still staring at the book on the table.

'Very well,' he said finally. 'You would require the key, of course.'

'More than that. The boy not only has the key, but I also require his… permission.'

Voldemort finally moved his gaze away from the book to look at Severus, who was studying the Dark Lord with vigilant eyes. He was choosing his words very carefully, although he did it in a much subtler fashion than the other degenerates that Voldemort was used to.

'The ceremony was never meant to be conducted by enemies. The charm will only work if the boy is willing.'

'Willing,' repeated Voldemort, impatience colouring his tone.

'Genuinely so,' Severus reiterated.

Voldemort suffered the unusual urge to sigh. Severus was watching him carefully, patiently.

'Fortunately for us, however, the will of a coward is never a strong one,' Voldemort said.

His eyes left Severus, drifting over the old book again. He reached out and picked it up, running his fingers carefully across the embossed letter on the cover. He stood there in thoughtful silence for several long moments.

Finally, he looked up and said curtly, 'Alert the others. They are to find the boy and bring him to me. His being so close to Potter complicates the situation,' he added thoughtfully, 'but perhaps this will work to our advantage. Potter has always had a weakness for others, even those he loathes….'

'Felling two Basilisks with one rooster,' Severus acknowledged with a slight nod. 'If we use the boy well, it could compromise Potter's protection quite effectively. And the others are bound to be suspicious of the boy, even if Potter trusts him.'

Voldemort handed the book back to Severus, who tucked it back inside the pocket of his robes. 'Go. I will not tolerate tardiness in this matter. Send Wormtail in on your way out.'

'Yes, my Lord.' Severus inclined his head again, turning to leave.

'And, Severus,' Voldemort said suddenly just as Severus opened the door, 'if anything were to happen to the boy before his due time, those responsible would suffer my… _displeasure_.'

Severus stood poised in the doorway for several moments, contemplating these words. Then, without so much as an acknowledgement or a backward glance, he left.

: : :

'Ohmygod,' squealed Ginny.

'Oh, my God,' whispered Hermione.

'Oh. My. God,' stuttered Ron.

'_Ohmygod!_' Ginny squealed again.

'Told you so,' Luna said smartly.

Ginny looked ready to explode. She was practically buzzing, a look of complete euphoria on her face. The sight made Remus smile inwardly.

McGonagall had suggested holding an optional meeting that night for those in the Order who wanted to know details about the Malfoy situation. Although, most of the senior members had already been aware of what had been going on, whether it was from word of mouth or personal involvement in his case, and the older witches and wizards had accepted his deal with Harry, albeit with some trepidation. After all, they all trusted Harry's judgement, just as they had all trusted Dumbledore's; however young he was, Harry had remarkable intuition, whether he was aware of it or not.

The younger members of the Order, however — namely, those who had known Draco at Hogwarts — had been largely unaware of the situation until the _Prophet's_ article that morning. Naturally, there had been a little bit of an uproar.

And so it was that they found themselves with such an unbalanced group tonight; aside from McGonagall, Arthur, Moody, Hagrid, Marius, Tonks and himself, there wasn't anyone older than twenty-three at the table. The adults had migrated from the sofas by the hearth as the younger members had arrived, and now they were all sat at the long, oak table near the window.

It was surprising how the club that began as _Dumbledore's Army_ had influenced the students into becoming more involved with the war. Although not everyone had continued to be involved after leaving Hogwarts, many of its former members were present. Down the side of the table opposite Remus sat Luna Lovegood, Terry Boot, Hermione, Susan Bones, Zacharias Smith, Ron, Tonks, and Ginny; beside him was Ernie Macmillan, followed by Justin Finch-Fletchley, Dean Thomas, Neville, Lee Jordan, the twins, Angelina Johnson, Arthur and finally, Moody.

Marius sat just opposite Remus, where he was involved in a polite debate about the potential aggressiveness of Hippogriffs with Hagrid, who was beside him. McGonagall sat at the head of the table, an empty seat on either side for the two people they were waiting for.

'My little girl,' Arthur exclaimed, 'playing for _Puddlemere!_'

'Big deal,' said Zacharias. 'Puddlemere isn't _that_ impressive, you know. And she isn't even on the team yet.'

Everyone ignored him.

'I can't _believe_ she made it into the official tryouts,' Fred said, shaking his head.

'Oliver put in a good word, no doubt,' George agreed, mirroring his twin.

'Oh, you two, you should be proud of her,' Tonks said reprovingly.

Ginny was still bouncing excitedly in place next to Tonks, the letter clasped in her hand.

'Plus, it's nice to have some _good_ news at last,' Tonks added as Ginny hugged her for the fifth time in two minutes.

The mood in the room sobered considerably at these words; they all knew what she was referring to – after all, it was the reason they were all here tonight.

'I hope Harry throttled him good,' Ernie said menacingly from beside Remus.

'I still can't believe that creep isn't in Azkaban,' Lee added. 'After what he's done.'

'I just wish they'd caught his dear old dad, too,' Ginny said viciously. The brilliant smile she'd worn only moments before had dissolved into a formidable snarl.

'Lucius already got what was coming to him,' Marius said in a commanding voice. 'The true horror of his crimes lies far beyond what any of you know.'

Lee glanced uncertainly at the twins, who shrugged. Ginny, however, turned in her seat to look down the table at him.

'I know enough,' she replied curtly. 'I know enough to say that he _hardly_ got what he deserved.'

'It is not Lucius' fate in question,' Marius reminded her. 'You all must realise that it is Draco, not his father, at our mercy tonight.'

'He tried to kill Dumbledore,' Ron argued. 'More than once. He almost killed Katie. He almost killed _me_. And the Death Eaters — '

'Mr Malfoy has already been acquitted by the Wizengamot of these charges, Mr Weasley,' Marius said sternly. 'I know that many of you have personal feelings that contradict this verdict, but unfortunately for you, it is the verdict that matters.'

'I just want to know why he did it,' Dean said quietly. 'I mean, Harry _hated_ Malfoy. Why would he help him? Why would Malfoy even go to him?'

'It's too dodgy,' Justin agreed, shaking his head. 'Potter never would have helped Malfoy.'

'I witnessed the testimony myself,' Marius said. 'Perhaps you do not know Harry as well as you think.'

'He could have Harry under the Imperius Curse,' Ernie suggested. 'Like the _Prophet_ says; it's the only thing that makes sense.'

Hermione opened her mouth to object.

'No,' said a quiet voice before she could. 'That isn't it.'

All eyes turned to Neville, who up until this point had just been listening quietly.

'Harry was the only one who could ever throw off the Imperius Curse,' he said, glancing up and down the table. 'You remember that, in fourth year? Nobody could but him, and he did it on his first try. And have any of you ever seen Harry bested in a duel? If he can survive a duel with You-Know-Who, do you really think Malfoy would have had any chance at putting him under the Imperius Curse?'

'Well,' said Ernie, looking uncomfortable. 'When you put it that way….'

'Okay, just supposing Potter _is_ doing it of his own free will,' Justin pressed. 'I can't think of one bloody rational reason why he would help Malfoy.'

'It's quite obvious,' Luna said suddenly.

She held up the latest edition of the _Daily Prophet_, which read, _MALFOY ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO HARRY POTTER! _

'Says it all, really. A bit of a shock, but it certainly explains a lot.'

'I always did think that that pretty boy was a bit of a poof,' Zacharias agreed reasonably.

'It was the hair,' Luna said vaguely, and Zacharias nodded in agreement.

Once again, the voices of reason went ignored.

'Oh, honestly,' said Hermione. 'Harry has his reasons. I trust him; we all do. He wouldn't be doing this unless he truly thought it was the right decision.'

'What I don't understand,' Ginny said, turning her gaze back to Marius, 'is why _you_, of all people, agreed to help him.'

Marius seemed to consider her words carefully before sitting forward and saying, 'Because if Ian had come home, I would have been the last person to turn him away.'

The table fell quiet again. Ian, Marius' son, had run away from home two years ago and joined the Death Eaters. It had been a rebellious move against his father more than anything; Ian was convinced that Marius, the overprotective parent, was trying to run his life.

And, like many young recruits, Ian had been executed when he tried to pull out of service to the Dark Lord — but it hadn't ended there. Death Eaters came for Marius' wife and daughter, too, to set an example to the rest of the recruits.

Aurors had made it to Marius' home in time to save his daughter — just barely. She was a pretty girl, recently sixteen at the time, and the two Death Eaters had taken it upon themselves to use her for some entertainment before disposing of her. From what Remus understood, the first Aurors at the site had wanted to wait for reinforcements before entering, but Harry had gone in alone, refusing to wait; because of that, the girl had survived.

Harry maintained that Marius did not owe him anything; he said that he would have done it for anyone, and Remus knew this was true. Nevertheless, Marius seemed to feel indebted to Harry and, as a result, trusted Harry's judgement more than most. And fortunately for Draco, Marius was the current Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, which had made swaying the trial much easier on the Order.

Remus understood that Ginny had good reason to be angry. Because of Lucius, Voldemort had possessed her and used her to do some truly terrible things. But Marius was correct — it was Draco, not his father, that would stand before them tonight and they needed to remember that.

Remus decided it appropriate to take advantage of the temporary silence and say something before things got out of hand.

'Many of you harbour ill feelings towards Draco — some with better reasons than others — but Harry, I think you all agree, has more reason than any of us,' he said slowly. 'And if he can find the willpower to push that part of himself aside and give Draco a chance, then the rest of you should be more than capable.'

'What the bloody hell is keeping them, anyway?' Ron asked. 'Shouldn't they be here by now?'

'Probably making out,' Zacharias suggested. Luna nodded, concurring.

Everyone ignored them.

: : :

_Apparently, I was misinformed._  
- Calvin and Hobbes

: : :

'Is that my wand?'

'No, that's _my_ wand. Hands off.'

'I can't see a bloody thing.'

'Well, if you'd let go of my wand for two ruddy seconds —'

' — well, if you'd kindly return _mine_ — '

' — over my dead body — '

' — that can be arranged!'

Harry yanked his arm away, finally freeing his wand from Draco's grip, and said, '_Lumos_.'

'I thought you said we were _done_ for the night,' Draco complained, very loudly so that his voice echoed off the tall, stone walls that were now visible. 'I'm cold, I'm hungry, and this place smells like mould.'

'I said we were done at the Ministry,' Harry corrected him. 'Stop moaning, it won't take that long.'

'But I'm _tired_ and Dobby has a hot dinner waiting with my name on it,' Draco moaned, glowering at Harry. 'Meeting with your Do-Gooders Elite wasn't in the contract.'

It was already getting dark, and Draco was indeed exhausted, hungry, and in dire need of a shower. If dealing with Boy Wonder and his sidekick, Bushy Beaver, all morning hadn't been enough, he had also suffered through several mountain ranges of parchment to acquire what his father had bequeathed to him.

After such an ordeal, his extremely spoiled Inner Child demanded rest and relaxation. He deserved a plate full of food and a bed with fluffed pillows – he'd earned it!

But _no_, Potter had to drag him to a meeting full of people out for his blood; and they had to go all the way to _Hogwarts_ for it, because due to Dumbledore's untimely demise, not enough of the new members had access to Grimmauld Place.

'This place looks smaller,' Draco observed, staring up at the ceiling of the entrance hall.

'That's because you're used to seeing it from a ferret's point of view,' Harry remarked absently. 'Come on, before Peeves finds us.'

Draco scowled and followed him, a few paces behind, eyes scanning the dark, empty halls. Hogwarts during the summer felt extremely creepy; drapes rustled suspiciously as they passed, all of the doors creaked unnecessarily loudly, and odd noises kept occurring in dark, hidden corners. Still, the layout was familiar, and the two of them hardly had to pay attention to their route, as their feet carried them along well-memorised paths. They had just passed the sinking step in the staircase when a familiar sharp cackle broke the silence.

'Ooh, look who it is! Potty Wee Potter!'

Draco noticed Harry's upper lip twitch slightly. 'Piss off, Peeves.'

'Ooh, Crackpot's still cranky, is he?' Peeves enquired cheerfully from above their heads, floating upside down. 'But I suppose I'd be cranky too, with little voices tittering away in my head all day! Shall I sing you a song to cheer your mood?'

'Peeves, I swear to Merlin – '

Peeves ignored him and began to sing:

_'Potty lad's hearin' voices in his head,  
and ol' Peevesy knows what goes unsaid,  
that Crackpot here still wets his bed –'_

'Peeves, if you continue that I will have to request that the Bloody Baron have words with you at once,' came a stern voice from the top of the stairwell. Draco and Harry both looked up to see McGonagall watching them, her hawk-like gaze glaring daggers at the poltergeist. Peeves stopped in his tracks and hissed at her before blowing Harry a raspberry, and zooming off humming his song.

Very softly, Draco began to hum along, too, ignoring Harry's glower in his direction as they walked up the stairs.

'Thanks, Professor,' Harry said as they reached the top. Draco had stopped humming, but he was still wearing a smug smirk.

'How many times must I remind you that you need no longer call me "Professor"?' McGonagall asked, peering at Harry over her glasses.

'Sorry,' Harry said, grinning crookedly. 'Old habit.'

She turned her sharp gaze to Draco, her eyes giving him a sweeping once-over.

'Mr Malfoy, I daresay I should expect neither thanks nor due appreciation on your part for all that the Order has done on your behalf. However, as Headmistress of this school, I _do_ expect you to be on your best behaviour tonight. I will not tolerate vulgarity or unnecessary provocation. Do we have an agreement?'

Draco's smirk disappeared. He didn't waste any energy on a verbal response, and simply nodded. McGonagall seemed satisfied, and returned the nod before shifting her focus back to Harry. Draco fell into step behind the two, and was surprised to find himself led to the very same room he had spent so much time in during his last year at Hogwarts: the Room of Requirement.

McGonagall opened the door and stood aside. Harry went in and, after a brief hesitation, Draco followed.

Echoes of hushed, urgent conversations quickly died away as Draco found himself the target of nearly two dozen hard, scrutinising gazes. The stares of the Weasley children were particularly brutal; the twins and Ron were all glaring at him with identical cold, blue eyes, and their younger sister had her arms folded, and narrowed her eyes at his approach.

Draco made sure to smirk triumphantly in their general direction.

Turning his attention to the rest of the group, he realised that virtually everyone there was familiar to him – most of them Draco recognised, with varying degrees of clarity, as having been in or around his year at school. Hagrid and Moody were instantly recognisable, and Arthur Weasley and Lupin were both present. The only person he couldn't put a name to was a young, happy-looking witch with a small nose and very short, shockingly pink hair, who sat between two of the Weasley children.

And there, next to Lupin, sat a man Draco recognised instantly, and he suddenly understood why his trial had gone as smoothly as it had.

'Evening, Mr Malfoy,' Marius said, acknowledging the recognition in Draco's eyes. 'Glad you could join us.'

Draco raised an eyebrow, nodded, and surveyed the length of the table; very few seats were available.

McGonagall was sitting at the far end, and Harry took a seat at her left side. She caught Draco's gaze and nodded sharply to the seat on her right, indicating that he should take it. Draco ignored her, took a seat between Lupin and Marius at the opposite end of the table from Harry and McGonagall, and smirked as her lips tightened into a thin line.

'Mr Malfoy, before we commence with any questions, we wish to submit your wand to a test,' McGonagall began.

There was a small uproar of protests from many of the younger people at the table, who seemed to believe that they needed to hear why Draco was even being allowed to breathe before doing anything else. McGonagall quieted the room with a look that would have done Snape proud.

'Marius can perform the charm,' Lupin explained from beside Draco, 'but it requires the cooperation of the wand's owner.'

Draco leaned back in his chair and shrugged. 'Whatever.'

McGonagall gave Harry a sideways look, and he retrieved Draco's wand from his robes and placed it on the table. Marius Summoned the wand with a quick flick of his own, and Draco made a mental note that this man, like Snape, seemed to have silent spell casting mastered.

Marius examined Draco's wand carefully, running his fingers along the length and curling them experimentally around the handle. His deeply tanned skin was highly contrasted against the milky colour of the wood.

'Is this Hornbeam?' he asked, flicking his eyes up to Draco.

Draco nodded. The wood of his wand was not massively unusual, but not that common either. Draco had been surprised to see that Viktor Krum had one of the same grain when he had attended Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. Draco's wand was different, however, in that the wood was unaltered – the pasty, off-white colour of the Hornbeam remained, making the wand strangely unique, as most were stained darker colours as a precaution against imperfections that may occur throughout the wand's life.

'A Gregorovitch, I presume?' When Draco nodded, Marius turned his gaze back to the wand and twirled it. It glowed briefly, and faint sparks were emitted from the end. 'And the core?'

'Nundu whisker.'

Someone gasped. Hagrid sat forward, looking extremely interested. 'Nundu? Really?'

Draco glanced at him without turning his head. 'Yes.'

Hagrid still looked incredulous. 'Blimey, how'd you manage tha'?'

Marius seemed equally surprised. 'These are rare. Very impressive, Mr Malfoy, this must have cost a fortune.'

Draco shrugged noncommittally. 'Probably. I received it for my coming of age.'

Marius took his time examining the wand, muttering simple charms and spells occasionally, and seemed satisfied with its performance. Then, surprisingly, he handed the wand to Draco. Several people at the table made noises of protest, and Ron and the twins began to stand up, but Lupin raised a hand and shook his head, silently instructing them to relax.

With a smirk, Draco took the wand, his fingers curving over the smooth, familiar contours. Marius produced a very small, silver device that looked remarkably like a candlestick holder, and placed it on the table. There was a hole where the candle would go that looked to be made of some sort of pliable material, roughly designed to fit the shape of an average wand handle.

'Place your wand inside, handle first,' Marius explained. 'Touch the tip with the forefinger of your wand hand, and recite the incantation, _ostendo obsideus_.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. He knew that _ostendo obsideus_, roughly translated, was Latin for 'reveal' and 'frequent'. He assumed this was just like _Prior Incantato_, only it probably would reveal the most frequent spells cast by the wand instead of just the most recent.

Placing his wand in the device, Draco touched the tip with the forefinger of his left hand and repeated the incantation perfectly. The effect was not immediate; the mass at the table held their breath as the wand began to hum softly, and slowly began to emit a soft white glow, the light growing stronger and spreading outwards in evenly paced, spherical pulses that formed large, shimmering bubbles of light.

The bubbles grew larger, expanding to encase Draco and those others close by, each continuing to grow until it faded away into the darkness of the room, soon followed by the next bubble, until finally, the bubbles were large enough to engulf half the table before they disappeared.

Very suddenly, there was a bright flash, and the wand expelled a sound like rushing wind, and images were swirling and flowing along the inside and outside of the globular waves of light, as if someone had taken them directly from a Pensieve and projected them in the air. Draco watched, entranced, with the rest of the table, as fragmented, grey scale memories flickered on the bubbles of light around them, like some sort of magical theatre.

The Manor, looming bright and large against a dark backdrop of trees, accompanied by the echoing sound of slowly beating wings; his mother, seated at their grand piano by candlelight, the wing beats dissolving into the beat of a familiar melody echoing through the room; the melody melted into words, soft-spoken and nearly inaudible — his own voice, just above a whisper — and his hand, running through the grass.

The grass melded from long, dark strands to short, white fur that rose and fell under his hand, and the sound of his heart beating became distinguishable; heartbeats integrated into the sound of approaching hooves thundering across hard soil, and a sharp whinny penetrated the resounding thuds as a blur of four dark legs swept by.

It was dizzying; Draco could feel the power branching out from his forefinger, and it felt as if the wand were sucking the memories straight from his mind, forcing him to watch them, relive them, and reveal them as he had seen them. He felt like he couldn't breathe, and nor could he pull his finger away — how long would he be stuck like this?

The hoof beats echoed and died away, replaced by an ominous silence, and flashes of dark bookshelves spinning around them; a roaring crackle broke the eerie quiet as flames erupted around the library and moulded into a large hearth, framed by smooth stone walls and a hardwood floor. The fireplace shifted, bloated, and flexed as the crackling noise melted into a fuzzy, rumbling thunder, shaping itself into a transparent sphere containing a single, tiny flame that flickered sharply and, with a sudden hiss as loud as a shout, went out.

The display ended much faster than it began, the sound and images gathering in a furious cyclone of light, spiralling neatly back into the wand. Draco let go as if he'd been released from a tight hold, feeling extremely light-headed and disorientated. He was breathless, his chest heaving in short, uneven gasps for several long moments before he was able to swallow and synchronise his inhalation properly.

'Interesting,' Marius said mildly, removing the wand and looking at Draco. 'Was that a Valaetas, Mr. Malfoy?'

Draco nodded, still taking long, deep breaths, staring at his wand as if he couldn't believe that it had actually just produced such an effect. 'What were you looking for?'

'Evidence,' Lupin answered for him. 'An idea of what you've spent the last four years doing, and any trace of Unforgivables.'

'Of which there seems to be none,' Marius commented, and then held the wand up. 'I'm assuming Harry will be having this back?'

'Yes,' Harry said from the other end of the table, calling the wand back to himself with a quick _Accio_.

'That was _cool_,' Ernie said suddenly.

Several people murmured in agreement. Luna, who was sitting close by, had her chin propped up with both hands and was staring at Draco with wide, silvery eyes.

'Was that your mum?' she asked. When Draco nodded, she smiled and said, 'She's very pretty.'

Draco, who had not been prepared for a compliment, involuntarily favoured her with a small smile. 'Thank you.'

'So… wait…' Susan Bones was idly toying with her plaited hair as she spoke. 'What exactly did we learn from that?'

Marius tucked the silver instrument back into the pocket of his robes. 'Well, if Mr Malfoy had been doing anything with the Dark Lord or his Death Eaters, they would more than likely have been frequent, well-documented memories. The Ostendus device is meant to show us the prominent images in one's mind, through the magic they perform on a regular basis.'

'And you didn't see any memories of Death Eater masks, Dark Marks or Voldemort in there, did you?' Lupin asked the table at large.

Everyone except Harry, Hermione, and McGonagall flinched at the use of the Dark Lord's name, and Hagrid slopped tea down his front. Draco hissed and felt his favour for his old Professor drop slightly.

'Do you mind?' he snapped darkly, shuddering.

Lupin gave Draco a look that he could not quite identify before turning back to the table. 'My point is, his activities weren't of a suspicious nature.'

'So _what?_' Fred said suddenly. 'Who gives a damn what he's been doing _recently?_'

'He still killed Dumbledore!' said George.

Fred, Ron, Ginny, Lee and Justin all chimed in with identical 'Yeah!'s at this proclamation.

'_Snape_ killed Dumbledore,' Lupin said sternly. 'And as most of you were fortunate enough not to be present during the incident, may I suggest that you do not make assumptions about what transpired there.'

The tone in Lupin's voice was a lot harsher than Draco could ever remember it being in classes, even when students had been misbehaving. The rest of the room seemed to be taken aback as well, and quieted. The majority took, instead, to fixing Draco with suspicious stares as a silent form of excoriating him.

Ron, however, ignored Lupin. 'Why'd you do it, Harry?' he asked, looking up to the other end of the table.

Gazes shifted from Draco to Harry, who was looking at his hands as they spun his wand in small circles over the table's surface. He did not answer immediately, but picked up his wand and started tapping the table top with it.

Mad-Eye Moody, who had been silently observing the meeting up until now, leaned forward and said gruffly, 'Potter, you owe them an explanation.'

'Yeah, I know,' Harry said finally, sitting back, eyes sweeping the table. His gaze stopped when it met Draco's, and Draco titled his head slightly. He was, after all, just as curious as the rest of them — as much as he had hoped, deep down Draco had never actually believed Harry would help him after everything he'd put him through in school.

Harry seemed to be considering his words carefully, and when he finally began, he spoke very slowly.

'Three reasons, really,' he said, looking away from Draco. 'First, because Dumbledore would have given him a chance, and second, because he may be a nasty, snobbish git, but he isn't his father—we can't blame him for Lucius' actions any more than we could blame Sirius for his family's.'

'He might as well be,' Lee Jordan muttered.

'And third?' Hermione prompted, ignoring the twins' and Ron's verbal agreements with Lee.

Harry's eyes flickered back to Draco's. He wasn't smiling, but there was a curious light dancing amongst the green behind his glasses as he answered, 'Because he apologised.'

'He apologised,' Ron repeated dully, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard Harry properly.

Harry nodded. 'While he was under Veritaserum.'

This seemed to hit home, as many of the Order turned their gazes, some with appraisal, others simply looking dumbfounded. Ginny, however, was glaring at Draco from her seat beside Harry. If only looks could kill.

'So you're telling me if You-Know-Who comes around one day and begs for forgiveness, you're going to give it?' Ginny snapped, not taking her eyes off Draco. 'What if Lucius _wasn't_ dead, Harry? Would you expect us to forgive _him_, too? After the — after he — '

'That's different, Ginny,' Harry said sharply.

She finally released Draco from her gaze and turned around in her seat to look at Harry. 'Tell me, how? _How_ is it different, Harry? Do you really believe he wasn't aware of what his father was doing? Lucius stood by and _laughed_ while You-Know-Who had you, and killed Cedric, and – '

'You think I don't know that?' Harry snapped back. 'I was the one who was there, if you remember!'

'If you would kindly leave my father _out_ of this,' Draco said savagely.

'Why?' Ginny snapped, rounding on him. 'He deserved _worse_; you should count him lucky that he got off so easy — '

She stopped as the hard scraping of wood on stone announced Draco getting to his feet.

'One more word, Weasley, and I swear to Merlin that no amount of Dementors or Azkaban will be enough to deter me from what I'll do to you.'

'Is that a threat, Malfoy?'

'It's a _promise_, witch.'

'Malfoy, Weasley, that is really quite enough.' McGonagall cut in sharply. 'Lucius is not the topic tonight, nor is he our concern anymore. _Sit down_, Mr Malfoy.'

Ginny opened her mouth to shout again, but stopped when the witch with pink hair placed a hand on her shoulder, shaking her head.

'Fine,' Ginny said quietly. 'Fine,' she repeated, louder. 'Do what you want. Trust the creep. But I'll be damned if I have to sit here and listen to his bullshit.'

'Ginny — ' Harry started.

'_Don't_,' she snapped, standing up and pulling her cloak about her shoulders. 'Don't you even try.'

After that, no one attempted to stop her as she walked around the table and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

Draco was personally glad to see her go. He wished her brothers would join her.

'One down, three to go,' Draco said cheerfully, eyes flickering between the twins and Ron. Fred started to rise.

'That's enough, all of you,' snapped Moody, standing up himself. 'Enough of the bickering. I got a few questions for the boy.'

He walked down the length of the table, taking the empty seat between Lupin and Ernie. Draco eyed him warily; even though he knew it hadn't been the real Moody who had turned him into a ferret, the man still made him extremely uneasy.

'So, boy,' Moody growled. 'Potter tells me you don't know where Snape is.'

'He's right. I don't.'

'Yeah? And what about your mother?'

'I — what? What about her?'

'Don't think I don't know about her and Snape,' Moody went on, his magical eye spinning wildly. 'If anyone knows where that bastard is, it'd be her.'

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'What I mean is that Snape's a man like the rest of us,' Moody said gruffly. 'He's been doing her favours left and right for years, and it don't take too much thinking to figure out why he'd risk so much on a woman.'

'Well, you thought wrong,' Draco snarled, insulted. 'Snape's always been a close friend of the family, and nothing more than that.'

Moody seemed unperturbed by Draco's indignation. 'Either way, the most likely person to know how to find him would be your mother.'

'That's too bad, because even if she did know, she wouldn't bloody tell you,' Draco said. 'So don't ask.'

'You can't expect us not to,' the pink-haired witch said abruptly. 'If she knows anything — '

'You'll leave my mother out of this,' Draco snapped. 'If you want something, you get it from me.'

'Why?' Ron asked. 'If she knows where he is then we deserve to know, after what he did — '

'No,' Harry said. 'No, leave Narcissa out of it. It was part of the deal.'

'I don't give a damn, Harry! How can you — you want to catch Snape as much as any of us!'

'Leaveit, Ron,' Harry said.

'Yes, Weasley, do shut up,' Draco added unhelpfully. 'My mother has been granted amnesty. You can take it up with my lawyers if you have a problem with that.'

'Very convenient,' Moody growled, glancing at Harry before turning back to Draco. 'How about the Manor, boy? Your mother's pardon coverin' that, too?'

'It would, if it belonged to her,' Draco said, still glaring at Ron. 'But the Manor is passed down by blood. Possession is transferred to the next Malfoy in line.'

Hermione, who had been quiet up until this point, suddenly perked up. 'Wait… the next in the _bloodline?_ Not the family line?'

'So it's yours, not your mother's?' Arthur asked, looking interested.

Draco nodded. 'It's a Malfoy estate, has been for centuries.'

Justin raised an eyebrow. 'Wait, so — what? What do you mean, it's passed down by blood?'

'A lot of old wizarding homes are bound by blood,' Hermione said. 'The older the family, the more likely that to be the case. The tradition was put in place to keep the property and acquired fortunes connected with the pure-blood lines.'

'And since my mother is a Black by blood, she holds no official rights to the Manor or the possessions contained therein,' Draco finished.

'That sounds stupid,' Ron said, shaking his head. 'She was married to Lucius, she's entitled — '

'This, Weasley, is why your family does not command any respect,' Draco snapped. 'My mother _is_ entitled, by my father's, or my, discretion, and that only. The bonds were put in place to prevent the property from ever passing into unsuitable hands.'

'Like if someone in the family married a Muggle, and then passed away,' Terry Boot suddenly suggested.

'Precisely,' Draco affirmed. 'And if and when this became the case, the someone in question was usually disinherited or disposed of before they could produce any offspring to claim patrimony.'

'That's disgusting,' said Ron.

'So is your face,' Draco told him cheerfully.

'Isn't there a way around that, though?' Harry asked no one in particular, ignoring Ron's snarling.

'Marriage is a legally binding ceremony, but has nothing to do with the family bloodline,' Hermione said with a meaningful look at Draco. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm assuming the enchantments are as old as the Manor itself, and so integrated by now that trying to remove them would be like waging war on the estate.'

Draco was slightly surprised by the extent of her knowledge of the subject, but didn't let it show. 'Indeed, with a good possibility of destroying it if you attempted to. And trust me when I say that war on the Manor is not something you want to do.'

'But if the Manor belongs to you now, then you should have access to everything,' Hermione said.

'Things only Lucius had the right of entry to before…' Arthur added, catching on.

'So, wait, we have full access to the Manor?' Terry asked. 'All of it?'

'That was the agreement,' Harry said, his gaze daring Draco to argue.

Arthur and Moody exchanged significant looks, and Moody nodded.

'We need to arrange a time to explore it,' Moody said.

'We're going tomorrow,' Harry told him. 'We have to install the Ministry wards, and then start watch shifts in the afternoon.'

'Sounds good,' Arthur said. 'I don't care if I have to give up every weekend for the next three months, we've been wanting in there for _years_.'

Draco scowled — he had agreed to granting access to the Manor in exchange for his mother's immunity, but the eager tone in the Weasley's voice made him uneasy. It wasn't that he had any desire to keep the things his father had hidden, but he did not want his home torn apart by the Ministry, either.

'Alastor, you should come along, as well,' Arthur said. 'We should try and keep those directly involved to Order members, if possible.'

'Mm,' Moody agreed. 'Should probably bring a curse breaker, too – your boy, Bill, if he's available — '

'Still in Egypt,' Arthur said regrettably. 'Terry should be well-coursed enough to suffice, though.'

'Yeah, I'm down,' Terry said. 'Sitting at a desk is getting old.'

'Wait, wait,' Ernie said, looking alarmed. 'Why would you need a curse breaker at Malfoy's _house?_'

Moody and Arthur exchanged looks again.

Draco smirked.

'You obviously don't know much about my father, Macmillan.'

: : :

With most of the questions out of the way, people slowly began to file out of the room; it was already quite late, and many of them seemed as eager as Draco had been to get home for dinner. Ten minutes later, only McGonagall, Arthur, Hagrid, Lupin, Hermione, Ron and Harry remained, still talking amongst themselves about their plans for the following day.

Eventually, Arthur yawned and said, 'Well, I think I'll be going, I don't want Molly up all night waiting.'

Harry nodded. 'Yeah, I'm knackered.'

_Finally_, Draco thought miserably.

'Wait,' Lupin said suddenly, and focused his gaze on Draco. 'One more thing.'

Harry looked surprised, but shrugged and said, 'Go ahead.'

'Are you an Animagus, Draco?' Lupin asked.

The others looked as taken off guard by the question as Draco felt, and his expression became stony. He thought about lying — he wasn't on Veritaserum this time, after all — but they were bound to find out the truth sooner or later.

'How did you know?' he asked. There was a murmur at this from the others, but Draco ignored them.

'Your memories,' Lupin explained. 'Your heartbeat is the predominant noise in your mind when undergoing a full-body transformation.'

Draco was impressed by the man's attention to detail. 'So it's the same for — '

'Werewolves, yes,' Lupin said, smiling slightly.

'I was curious about that,' McGonagall said – her tone was matter-of-fact, and she didn't seem as shocked as the others. 'What form?'

'Probably a snake,' Harry muttered darkly.

'Or a ferret,' Ron suggested hopefully.

'Equine, actually,' Draco said, glaring at the pair of them.

A look around the table showed Draco that most of the others were still watching him with blank looks, and he sighed exasperatedly. _Morons._ 'My form is a horse. You know, the big, four legged beasts that people tend to ride around on — '

'That's a bit unusual, isn't it?' Hermione asked McGonagall, interrupting him.

'An animal that size, yes,' McGonagall confirmed, her gaze still on Draco. She pursed her lips at him. 'I'll need to observe the shift and mark down your specifications. It may be to our advantage that you remain unregistered — however, the Order will need to have access to the description.'

Draco closed his eyes and withheld a groan.

'Is there a problem?' McGonagall asked, reading his expression.

He opened his eyes, meeting hers across the width of the table. 'I'd rather not,' he said.

'I'll have to insist,' McGonagall pressed. 'You can complete the transformation, I assume?'

'Yes.' He paused, thinking of how best to phrase his words. 'But not with material items,' he said finally.

'Material items?' Ron asked, puzzled.

'He can only change his own body,' Hermione filled in, comprehension dawning in her eyes. 'He can't Transfigure anything else — like clothes, or jewellery, or a wand.'

'He has to be _naked?_' Ron asked, now looking disgusted.

'Don't get so excited, Weasley,' drawled Draco.

'Do you still experience disorientation after your return to human form?' McGonagall asked, ignoring the retching noises Ron was making.

'A little,' he admitted. 'Shift-lag, mostly.'

'Shift-lag?' Harry asked, raising an eyebrow.

'Yes,' McGonagall said. 'When learning your Animagus form, your body will begin developing traits of the animal you will become. The better developed the traits, the easier it is to discover what your form is, so one can finally begin the physical part of the transformation. But after reverting to their human bodies, many amateur Animagi experience what is called "shift-lag"; they retain some of the incorporeal characteristics and instincts of their animal form.'

McGonagall pushed her glasses back up her nose and turned her attention back to Draco. 'How long does it last?'

Draco shrugged. 'Couple of hours, a day at worst.'

'That's not too bad, considering you had no professional training,' she admitted, giving him an assessing look. 'I must say, I'm impressed that you came to master the basics on your own, Mr Malfoy. Perhaps if you had spent more time during my lessons concentrating on the work instead of trying devise new ways to gain Mr Potter's attention, I would have noticed your talent for Transfiguration.'

Draco scowled at her. 'When do you want to see it?'

'Immediately,' she said.

'Right _now?_' he whined, drooping.

'Yes,' she confirmed, standing up, and then addressed the remainder of the group at the table. 'If the rest of you would kindly wait by the fire; I'd like to give Mr Malfoy as little reason to be distracted as possible, so as to enable a proper shift. Any diversions could affect the process.'

'Like we _want_ to watch,' Ron muttered darkly, standing up with the others.

'Denial is unhealthy, Weasley,' Draco advised.

As they all moved towards the other end of the room, squeezing together on the sofas and politely keeping their eyes averted, Draco slowly stood up. He waited until he could hear them talking amongst themselves before shrugging off his cloak.

McGonagall stood several metres across from him, adjusting her square spectacles and folding her arms, looking impatient.

Draco grimaced at her.

'This is very unbecoming,' he told her, beginning to unbutton his shirt.

'Nothing I haven't seen before, I assure you,' she said coolly. 'The sooner I see what you're doing wrong, the sooner we can correct the issue.'

The room was extremely chilly against his bare skin, making him shudder. It was a very surreal scene, to be standing naked from the waist up in front of an old professor. 'I would normally charge for this,' he said loftily, disrobing. The sarcasm helped him retain some of his dignity, at least.

There was a short, uncomfortable pause as McGonagall's eyes raked over his chest, and he knew from the tight line her lips formed that she now understood why he had hesitated to agree to this. Surprisingly, however, she made no comment, and brought her eyes back to his face, eyebrows raised.

'I daren't ask what for,' she said mildly. 'That necklace needs to come off, as well.'

Draco grimaced at her again and removed the chain, tucking it into the pocket of his slacks, and carefully kicked off his boots, followed by his socks. The floor was so cold it hurt to stand on it, and he curled his toes against the rough texture of the stone while he unbuckled his belt.

'How long did it take you to complete the transformation?' McGonagall asked, distracting him from his actions.

'Once I knew what it was, a little over a year.'

She nodded. 'And have you ever got stuck?'

'No,' he said, pausing. 'There were a few times when the process was slowed, but nothing serious.'

She nodded again. 'What are the most noticeable traits in the shift-lag?'

'Alertness,' he answered automatically, having felt the effects many times. 'Mostly sensitivity to sound and movement, extreme restlessness — in other words, I won't be getting any sleep tonight,' he added grumpily.

'I'm sure you'll survive,' she said, tapping her foot idly. 'Now, do you plan on removing your trousers, Mr Malfoy, or would you like some assistance?'

: : :

'An Animagus,' Hermione said pensively, sitting herself between Harry and Ron on the sofa across from Lupin, Hagrid and Arthur. 'I can't believe it… well, actually, I suppose I can, but I certainly didn't expect it.'

'You _can?_' Harry asked. 'How?'

'Well, if you think about it, Malfoy was always rather good with charms and Transfiguration,' Hermione began, looking thoughtful. 'Those badges he made during the Triwizard Tournament were way above his level, and — oh, don't look at me like that,' she said defensively when she saw the indignant glare Harry cast at her. 'I'm not saying it's a _good_ thing he made them, Harry, but you have to admit he was rather creative.'

'Creative?' Harry snapped. 'If by "creative" you mean a complete bastard, then sure, I'll acknowledge that.'

'I can't believe he apologised,' Ron muttered, oblivious to their conversation. He looked to Harry as if he would suddenly tell Ron it had all been a joke. Harry just frowned.

'I'm quite looking forward to tomorrow,' Arthur said brightly. 'Full access to the Manor…'

'What's it like?' Harry asked him.

'The Manor?' Arthur's brow furrowed. 'Not what you'd expect, I'd imagine.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, for one, you wouldn't think it was the house of a Death Eater unless you already knew it. Lucius always loved to show it off at every opportunity, inviting important people to dinners left and right... It's quite nice, to be honest,' he said, looking thoughtful.

Harry shrugged. 'I figured it'd be nice. I mean, the Malfoys are wealthy, aren't they?'

Arthur shifted in his seat, resting one hand on his knee. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. 'Harry, you need to know that Draco's grown up quite differently from you and my children; he's had everything he's ever wanted. He takes comforts and luxuries for granted because it's what he's used to, and you need to understand that.'

Ron snorted. 'So what you're saying is that he's a spoiled brat.'

'Well, yes and no.' Arthur drummed his fingers on the table idly. 'We can't really hold it against him, that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.'

'Sure we can,' Harry and Ron said together. Arthur frowned.

'What?' Harry demanded of Arthur, reading the look. 'He's a nasty, arrogant snob every minute of every day. He doesn't _have_ to act like that, I don't care how he was brought up, he's old enough now to be aware of how he treats people, and I am not going to just accept it because he happened to be born well-off.'

'We're not asking you to, Harry,' Lupin said suddenly. He sat forward in his seat, clasping his hands together in his lap. 'But old habits die hard, and he's not going to change overnight.'

'Overnight?' Ron snapped. 'It's been _four bloody years_ – '

'Four years o' being locked in a house with only his mum for company,' Hagrid reminded them. 'And it was 'er who raised 'im in the first place to be the way 'e is.'

'You must have known it would not be easy for someone in his position to approach you at all,' Lupin added, 'much less swallow his pride enough to ask for help.'

'Well, considering his only other choice was to go to You-Know-Who, I find it hard to be proud of him for taking the safer route,' Ron muttered darkly.

'But that's just it,' Lupin insisted. '_Neither_ route was safe for him. In fact, exposing himself was probably the riskier of the two — what if Harry had turned him away? There's a good chance he'd be in Azkaban right now, and if you think he's safe from Voldemort there then you're fooling yourself. He went to Harry because he counted on the fact that Harry would still be the person he disliked so much at Hogwarts; someone who would do what was _right_, even if it meant disregarding their personal feelings — something I'm afraid he probably hasn't had enough of in his life.'

Lupin's eyes flickered to Harry's. 'He had faith in you to be _you_, enough that he risked his exposure for it.'

'He only came to me because Snape told him to!' Harry folded his arms, looking sour. 'And look what Dumbledore got for trusting _him_. I just… I don't want it to end up like that again.'

Hermione took a long, slow breath in preparation to voice her opinion. She had to choose her words carefully, however; she knew Dumbledore's death was a touchy subject with Harry, and had no desire to set him off.

'What _I_ think,' she said, 'is that there's more to all of this than meets the eye. I don't like Malfoy at all, but there's a lot we don't know. Like, for instance, we don't know how long he knew Lucius was a Death Eater, or how involved Draco was with his father's activities.'

'You mean we don't know how long it is before he follows in his father's footsteps,' Ron said darkly.

'No, Ron,' Hermione said patiently. 'What I mean is if one of our parents turned out to be working for Voldemort, how would we handle it? Would you turn in your own father?'

'My father isn't a Death Eater!' Ron said, flinching. 'And he never would be!'

'That isn't her point, though,' Arthur said reasonably. 'You-Know-Who was dormant for most of Draco's young life. For all we know, Draco didn't grow up with a Death Eater for a father; it would probably have been in Lucius' best interests not to tell him until he had to.'

'So what?' Harry asked. 'He seemed pretty miffed when I named his father as Death Eater and got him landed in prison.'

'That's my _point_,' Hermione said, exasperated. 'Ron, Harry, just suppose that in fourth year, Arthur _had_ resumed duty as a Death Eater — your own father, your _friend_, someone you thought you knew and trusted and loved — what would you do? Turn against him? Stop loving him? Would you want to see your own father in prison, Ron?'

Ron looked startled. 'Well, no, but that has nothing to do with this! My father would never – '

'It has _everything_ to do with it,' Lupin said gently. 'Hermione's right. You need to look at it from Draco's perspective.'

'Draco _worshipped_ his father, even you know that,' Hermione said, looking at Harry. 'Whenever anything went wrong, whenever he didn't get his way, he would—'

'Threaten to tell his father,' Harry finished. He seemed to have finally caught on to her train of thought. 'It was always _"My father will be hearing about this, blah blah blah..."_'

'Exactly!' said Ron, who still seemed to be beyond understanding. 'Because he knew what his father was, and that he could scare people into getting his way!'

'Lucius was influential enough in his own right to do tha',' Hagrid said. 'His money 'n contacts were more'n enough to bribe and blackmail anybody he pleased without havin' to mention he was workin' fer You-Know-Who.'

'It's also probably why You-Know-Who gave him so much slack,' Arthur chimed in. 'Lucius was damned useful.'

Ron still didn't look convinced. 'I don't see how that helps Malfoy's case any. If anything, he should want to get back at Harry for getting his father on bad terms with You-Know-Who.'

Hermione was about to reprimand him for that statement, but a sharp clatter of hooves interrupted her. The three of turned around in their seats to peer over the edge of the couch, while Hagrid, Lupin and Arthur all raised their heads to get a better look.

McGonagall was standing by the long table, her head tilted slightly to the side, right hand over her head and waving in a circular motion. Before her was a horse that was so startlingly white it seemed to glow in the darkness of the room; at first glance, Hermione was sure she could have mistaken it for a unicorn.

She stood up, slowly making her way towards McGonagall. After a moment, Hagrid and Harry followed her. McGonagall held up her palm and the horse stopped spinning, facing her, and McGonagall ran her hand along the long neck and down the chest. The horse stomped a front hoof in what seemed like agitation, but McGonagall ignored it. Removing her hand, she looked up at Harry and Hermione, eyebrows raised.

The horse wasn't as large as Hermione had been expecting, but it wasn't exactly small, either. As tall as McGonagall was, the professor's shoulders were just barely visible over its back as it slowly twirled around, following her directions. There was something almost dainty about the frame, though Hermione couldn't place it — she had never been very fond of horses, so her knowledge of different types was somewhat limited, but she could tell from the aristocratic posture that it was the breed you'd expect of a show horse — pure-bred to perfection, no doubt.

_How typical of Malfoy_, she thought.

'Wow,' Hagrid breathed. 'He's a beaut, ain't 'e?'

'What breed do you suppose this is, Hagrid?' McGonagall asked, eyes sweeping over Malfoy's form.

'Arabian, no doubt about tha',' Hagrid said, inspecting the head of the horse.

Harry squinted. 'How can you tell?'

'See the way the forehead dishes like tha', and the way the ears curve?' Hagrid explained, pointing as he did. 'All fancy-like, an' it makes 'em a unique breed — but they're fast 'n sturdy like any good horse; pretty smart, too.'

The horse snorted, as if to say, _of course I am_, and stood up a little straighter. Hermione found herself smiling; leave it to Malfoy to have the gall to morph into a horse and then strike a pose.

On closer inspection, it was easy to see the resemblance between Draco and his Animagus form. The fur was a pale, milky colour that resembled his pallid skin tone; similarly, the mane and tail were the exact same white-blonde as his hair, and when the horse turned his head to look at them, she could see the eyes were the same, familiar stormy grey.

Draco turned his head back to McGonagall, snorting softly. His ears kept flicking backwards and forwards again, and his high-held tail was twitching restlessly. McGonagall was studying him closely, tilting her head this way and that, muttering instructions for him to follow.

'Well, you seem to have the corporeal form down, at least,' McGonagall murmured with some relief. 'Hagrid?'

'Yea, he looks all righ',' Hagrid said with a heavy shrug of his shoulders. 'All his joints facin' the right way. Good form an' all, s'far as horses go...'

'Head up,' McGonagall said curtly. Draco obeyed, holding his head higher, and McGonagall's eyes flickered up and down the underside of his neck, checking for distinguishing markings.

Hermione followed her gaze, and seemed to notice it at the same time as McGonagall did; there was a straight, somewhat angled black line, as if someone had taken a piece of charcoal and drawn it on the skin just beneath the fur. It began at the base of the horse's neck and ran along the front of the chest, disappearing from view between its front legs. Hermione could guess that it continued for some way along the stomach.

With a bit of a start, Hermione realised that the marking wasn't a colouration oddity, or otherwise a characteristic of the animal — it was a _scar_. It wasn't horribly noticeable unless you were actively looking for it; even Hagrid and Harry didn't seem to give it a second thought as they looked over Malfoy's form, blissfully unconcerned.

McGonagall nodded, finishing her inspection and allowing Draco to lower his head again.

Hermione searched Malfoy's horse eyes for some sort of explanation, but he seemed intent on ignoring everyone except McGonagall. Hermione wondered if he realised she'd noticed the mark.

'I'd like to make sure you've got the internal make-up correct, though,' McGonagall added. She conjured up a small bucket with a quick spell and filled it with water with another tap of her wand, placing it on the ground before the horse.

'Go on, Mr Malfoy,' she urged.

If it were possible for a horse to regard someone with contempt, Malfoy was doing it to McGonagall. He finally lowered his head, dipping his grey-toned muzzle into the bucket.

McGonagall muttered an incantation and ran the tip of her wand along the horse's neck to the shoulder, then in a circle around Malfoy's midsection. A faint, blue glow began to travel around a similar path as her wand had traced, pooling slowly in the vicinity of what must have been the horse's stomach. McGonagall removed her wand, and the blue glow vanished.

'All right,' she said, and the horse picked its head up. 'We'll need to work on your shift — I think I know where you've gone wrong — but as you have the finished process correct, we'll worry about it later.'

Turning back to Harry, Hagrid and Hermione, she escorted them back towards the fire, giving Draco privacy to shift back.

'Well, I must say it's a relief that he seems to have a decent grasp on the method. Self-studied Animagi frequently muck up the process so severely that the damage is irreversible, and they're never able to properly transform.'

She stopped by the small cluster of sofas, turning to Harry. 'And fortunately for us, his form is something highly conspicuous. I do hope you'd notice a fully grown horse trying to slip out of your residence unnoticed.'

'Yeah, me too,' Harry said heavily. 'Speaking of which, I think it's about time we got going, we've got a long day tomorrow….'

Hermione gradually lost track of what Harry was saying. She glanced over her shoulder, trying to be discreet; Draco had his back to her, and was already shrugging his shirt over his shoulders. He began buttoning it up with his chin bent low, seemingly unaware that he was being watched. She looked away, returning her gaze to the fire, dimly aware of Harry bidding Hagrid goodnight.

Harry hadn't noticed the scar… he probably didn't even know it was there… that was fine, though, wasn't it? It was Malfoy's concern, after all — if he didn't want to tell Harry, it was his problem… even if it had been Harry who gave it to him…. Harry would probably have a hernia if he knew… it was probably for the best that he didn't know about it… it wasn't their business if Malfoy wanted to keep it to himself…

…right?

'Hermione?'

'Huh?' Hermione snapped back into the present, blinking. Ron and Harry were watching her, eyebrows raised. McGonagall, Hagrid, Arthur and Lupin were already gone. 'What?'

'Seven o'clock, tomorrow,' Harry said, sounding as if he was repeating it. 'Arthur wants to get a head start at the Manor, and we can't get a Portkey permit without the Ministry finding out we're leaving early, so we'll just have to Apparate to the nearest town….'

'Nearest town?'

Draco was fully-dressed again, draped in an expensive looking cloak and leaning on the edge of the table, watching the three of them by the fireplace with his arms folded insolently.

'It won't kill you to walk,' Harry snapped.

'You seem to be under the delusion that there's a town near the estate,' Draco said.

'There's bound to be something around — '

'Apparently, you were misinformed,' Draco said. 'The closest wizarding village is about an hour's _flight_ by broom, and unless you plan to Apparate at dawn only to arrive at the Manor on foot around mid-afternoon, you might want to reconsider your mode of transportation.'

Harry looked slightly taken aback by this piece of information, but he recovered quickly. 'Well, we can't fly, there's too many of us; we'd attract too much attention. And like I said, we can't get a Portkey, and unless you want to — '

'No, we are not connecting the Manor to the Floo Network,' Draco said firmly before Harry could suggest it.

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Then what do you suggest?'

There was something in that feral grin on Malfoy's face that worried Hermione deeply.

'I've taken care of it,' Draco said simply, and attempted to take a step forward — but the moment he took his weight off the edge of the table he wavered, as if he were drunk, and was forced to grab the edge again to keep from falling. He winced at the movement, shaking his head slightly.

'Are you all right?' Hermione asked, startled.

'Since when do you care?' Draco snapped, opening his eyes to glare at her. 'And for your information, it's not easy going from four legs to two. Shifting can be a bitch until you're used to having your entire centre of gravity reversed.'

'I was just — forget it, fine,' she snapped back, giving up. And to think, a few minutes ago she had been worried about some stupid scar he had. 'Ron, Harry, have a good night, I'll see you in the morning,' she said briskly and, picking up her cloak, she made her way to the door.

'And you're right, Malfoy,' she said, pausing briefly in the threshold. 'I _don't_ care.'

: : :


	5. Chapter Four: Smoke and Mirrors

Chapter 4  
**Smoke and Mirrors**

_Standing face to face  
Enemies at war we build defences  
And secret hiding places_  
—Savage Garden

: : : : :

At fourteen, Draco was more than familiar with how to conduct a wizard's duel. The proper etiquette was quite simple to memorise, most of it comprising of a fair-and-square approach to magical engagement, with good posture, formality and polite conduct being maintained at all times—

'_Fuck!_'

'Language, Draco.'

—but his father always insisted on these bloody practice sessions anyway.

Once a week during the summer holidays, Lucius took several hours out of his busy day to exercise his son's spellwork. The repertoire of spells and the length of the duels had expanded over the years, but Draco had yet to overcome his father—something Lucius was sure to mention at the end of every session.

Draco scowled at his father. 'You did that on _purpose_!'

Lucius raised a pale eyebrow. 'I do _everything_ on purpose.'

Draco massaged his ribs just below his left arm. His father's Stinging Hex hurt a hell of a lot more than anything his classmates could dish out; it was as if Lucius knew every area of the human body with sensitive nerves and made sure to hit them every time—making the effect of the spell that much more powerful.

'Again,' Lucius said, hardly giving his son time to recover.

Knowing better than to argue, Draco stood up straight and raised his wand at the ready.

His father always varied the amount of time he would wait before casting—yet somehow, he always managed to get a spell off before his son could finish an incantation. It irritated Draco no end that his father could always anticipate his upcoming moves simply by watching him, and so he rarely tried to cast the first spell.

This time, he did not have to wait long. Almost immediately, Lucius snapped, '_Serpensortia!_'

Responding with '_Muto funis!_' Draco transfigured the snake, mid-strike and just inches from his calf, into a harmless piece of rope—which Lucius immediately used to his advantage. His father attacked with '_Incarcerous!_' and the rope sprang to life, intent on securing itself around Draco's shoulders.

'_Incendio!_' With the sound of a whiplash, the rope his father had sent to ensnare him blazed aflame, and the ashy remains sprinkled slowly to the floor. Lucius raised his eyebrows slightly. Draco was well aware that the ability to incinerate something so quickly was impressive at his age, and he dimly noted that he'd gained some approval.

Using this momentary lapse in his father's attention to his advantage, Draco cast a Shield Charm—with a twist. He knew that any defensive spell could, theoretically, be used as an _offensive_ spell with the right application and necessary ingenuity—in this case, he had directed the Shield Charm at his father rather than around himself, so that a semi-visible barrier of magic hurtled at Lucius at high speed.

Lucius cocked his head and, quick as a snake striking, flicked his wand before him and conjured his own shield—a silvery, reflective and stationary wall appeared before him, and Draco's hex collided with it and rebounded, effectively being thrown back towards its caster. Draco, unprepared to deflect his own spell, took the full impact of the spell, and was knocked from his feet and onto his back. The hardwood floor bit harshly into his shoulder blades and stars danced in front of his eyes as his head connected with the floor, hard.

Before his son could recover Lucius had disarmed him. Wincing and cursing, Draco sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He shot his father an accusatory look. 'You said no dark magic!'

'I also said never to take the word of your opponent for granted,' his father replied smugly.

'Do mine ears deceive me?' asked a sweet voice from behind Draco. 'A Malfoy disregarding the rules of a duel?'

Narcissa, looking windblown, had her hair tied back in a long ponytail, and was dressed in riding slacks and a long, white cloak. She offered her son a hand up, which he gratefully accepted, grabbing his wand and climbing sorely to his feet.

'I'm fine,' he said dismissively as she tilted her head to look him over.

'You're improving,' Lucius said from behind her. 'But you keep making the same mistakes, Draco. How many times must I tell you? Never cast a spell upon your opponent that—'

'—I don't know how to deflect,' Draco finished, aware that he made this mistake frequently.

'It's no use having a wide array of offensive spells—or even the ability to invent your own,' Lucius added with a small smirk, '—if you have no way to defend yourself against them. A worthy opponent will always use them to his advantage.'

'Especially if the opponent in question doesn't know how to deflect them himself, and has to neglect his own rules to win,' Narcissa added with a reproving look over her shoulder at her husband. 'I don't know how you expect him to improve if you keep contradicting your own instructions.'

Draco smirked as he sensed his father bristling from across the room. The only thing that agitated Lucius more than being scolded by his wife was being belittled at the same time—something Narcissa seemed to have perfected over twenty years of marriage. Lucius ignored her comment and focused his gaze back on Draco. 'Again,' he commanded.

Very nonchalantly, Narcissa tilted her son's chin up with her hand. With her back to her husband, she whispered to Draco, 'Play your _strengths_,' and made her way to the far side of the room to observe from a safe distance. Picking up his wand, Draco held it at the ready again. This time, he attacked first.

Draco's Freezing Charm was easily blocked by Lucius, but it effectively put his father on the defensive. Draco attacked again, this time with the Spiderweb Snare Jinx. It was a very weak, simple spell, but Draco anticipated his father deflecting it, and as Lucius shouted _'Diffindo!' _to cut through the web, Draco directed his wand at his father's feet and followed his mother's advice with '_Potior evincio!'_

Although proficient with Potions, Draco's strongest subject with spellcasting involved was easily Transfiguration—another trait he'd inherited from his mother, for Lucius was more adept with Charms than anything else. Using this skill, he directed the polished hardwood to spring up beneath his father, forming several long, entangling roots. If the creative twist of using Transfiguration to attack, however, surprised his father, Lucius did not show it; he reacted almost instantly with '_Magus infectum!_'

It was a fast, clever deflection; both a defence and an offence, it corrupted the magic and reversed Draco's spell onto himself, and before he could think of a way to counter it, Draco felt the floor beneath him move and hard, cool wood wrapped tightly around his lower legs and wrists, snaring him. Under the direction of Lucius' wand, the root around the wrist of Draco's wand hand squeezed particularly hard, to the point where it felt that his wrist would snap into pieces. He let out a sharp gasp of pain and his wand clattered to the floor, useless.

Satisfied with his victory, Lucius lifted his wand. The roots retracted into the floor, which turned smooth and solid once more. Draco dropped to his knees as he was released, rubbing his wrist with his other hand.

'Unless you render your opponent defenceless first,' Lucius said patiently, 'spells without instant effects are often a waste of energy. Nice try, though.'

'Oh, I beg to differ,' Narcissa said from her seat on the windowsill.

'Don't you always,' Lucius murmured under his breath before turning to face his wife. 'I don't know how you expect him to improve if _you _keep contradicting my instructions,' he said with a touch of irritation in his voice.

'By his learning to interpret several different approaches to duelling, and then adapting them until he discovers the method that works best for him,' she replied in a sweet, matter-of-fact tone.

She directed her next comment to Draco, who had retrieved his wand and was sat cross-legged on the floor. 'Instantaneous spells are only truly _instant_ if you do not have to speak the incantation—and to defend against an opponent who is able to cast non-verbally, pre-cast, lingering spell effects are often more useful than anything you'll be able to cast after engagement.'

Lucius gave her a knowing look. 'You've been duelling Severus again, I presume.'

'Mm,' she replied, smiling. 'And doing rather well, if I should say so myself. Better than _you_, at any rate.'

Lucius narrowed his eyes. 'He goes easy on you.'

'You'd like to think so,' Narcissa said mildly, pretending to inspect her nails.

'Hardly,' Lucius said derisively. 'He's afraid of hurting you.'

'You mean, you just think he's afraid of what _you'd_ do to him if he did,' she reiterated.

'He'll never manage to do so unless he conducts a _proper_ duel with you,' Lucius snarled, his patience waning. 'So I daresay he has nothing to fear.'

'Is that so?' Narcissa said, having finally looked up from her nails, blue eyes shifting to Lucius without moving her head. 'Care to show me what a _proper_ duel is like, darling?'

Lucius twirled his wand briefly between his fingers before looking up at Draco. 'Move,' he snapped.

Draco stood up and quickly backed out of the way, stopping at the wall beside the door and leaning against it. Narcissa smirked and shrugged off her cloak, withdrawing her wand from her sleeve. It was unusually long, nearly fourteen inches, and rich mahogany in colour. She quickly moved to stand opposite her husband.

'Anything goes?' she asked mildly.

Lucius nodded curtly. 'Anything goes.'

There was very little warning before the duel began; his father bowed his head ever-so-slightly, his mother did a very curtailed curtsey, and then Narcissa shouted _'Eternus nox!_' just half a breath before Lucius attacked with _'Imperio!_'

The entire room was bathed in darkness, and not merely the kind of darkness that you see after nightfall. It was the kind of darkness you _can't_ see in—the kind you experience when thrown in a box and buried six feet underground. It was a smart cast—Lucius always hit hard as quickly as he could, and the darkness prevented him from finding his target.

Only a mere second after darkness had fallen, Lucius ended it with_ 'Finite incantatem!_' and then several things happened in very quick succession.

Narcissa attacked first with '_Succendo_!' and flames erupted where Lucius had stood a moment before, having dodged backwards out of the ring before the spell could land. He tried the Imperius Curse once more, but Narcissa, expecting such a thing, avoided it easily. She countered with '_Discerpo_!' aiming to dislocate his wand arm, but missed, creating a sizable crater in the wall behind him.

Lucius followed with '_Laniatus!_' and a white, boomerang-shaped streak made for Narcissa's throat.

_'Protego!'_ The boomerang ricocheted off the shield charm Narcissa cast and cartwheeled back towards Lucius, who jerked his head out of the way as it went careening past and disappeared as the spell wore off. Without waiting for retaliation, Narcissa continued with _'Sectumsempra!_'

Something flashed in his father's eyes as he heard the spell she cast. Lucius didn't miss a beat, however; with the kind of reflexes and quick thinking that come only with experience, he thrust his wand forward and shouted, _'Expecto patronum!'_

Besides the prank gone horribly wrong that previous school year (involving one Marcus Flint, a big cloak and a ghostly stag charging down from the Heavens), Draco had never seen a Patronus Charm in such close quarters before. His father's Patronus was, unsurprisingly, much more impressive than Potter's; a silvery-white dragon exploded out of Lucius' wand, crouching low to fit in the room, with its wings flailed sideways and mouth open in an impressive snarl.

Draco's eyes widened a little. He had never heard the spell his mother had used before, but for Lucius to conjure to Patronus to absorb it meant a couple of things; firstly, it was very dark magic, because a Patronus was about as far from dark magic as you could get and therefore an excellent way to defend against it; and secondly, the curse, whatever it was, could not be blocked, for if it could, Lucius surely wouldn't have bothered with such a powerful spell as the Patronus Charm.

Sure enough, as the curse Narcissa had cast connected with the ghostly guardian, it was sliced cleanly in half and the beast vanished, roaring, in a great sweep of silver mist. Lucius jerked backwards as the mist cleared. On closer inspection, Draco saw why—even though his father's Patronus had successfully intercepted the worst of the spell, a very small portion of the curse had hit him, and had left a nasty slash across his cheek.

'_Expellimarius!_' Lucius snapped—it was a trivial attempt at offence, a distraction, and it worked. Narcissa blocked it easily with another shield charm, and Draco watched in mingled horror and awe as his father immediately followed it with '_Crucio!_'

There was a sharp cry of pain from Narcissa, which was followed by a louder shout from Lucius, more of surprise than pain, and he fell harshly against the wall behind him. It appeared that he had also felt pain from the curse. Draco knew that there were protective spells that would cause the caster to feel their victim's pain when they used a particular spell; his mother must have anticipated her husband's use of the Cruciatus, and cast such a spell in the earlier darkness in order to interrupt his casting.

Not losing a beat, Narcissa followed his curse with '_Potior evincio!' _and the brass light fixture attached to the wall sprang to life and twisted around Lucius' wrist; his wand hand, splayed against the wall from his impact, was at once held flush against the wall. Draco saw his father snarl slightly and attempt to pull his wrist free, but Narcissa pulled back her wand as if it were a lasso, tightening the metal coil around his arm.

With a painful crack that Draco suspected was bone snapping, the brass coils snapped Lucius' wrist up high and tight against the wall, and his wand clattered to the floor. With a smug smirk and a 'Hm' noise, Narcissa resumed a refined posture and summoned Lucius' wand with a lazy _Accio_. She glanced at Draco, and her wand, pointed at Lucius, dropped slightly. 'As you can see, lasting spell effects can ward off crucial spells cast by your enemy, even killing blows, when it will be most efficacious for—'

As soon as her wand had dropped short of her husband, there was a loud crack—Lucius had Disapparated so quickly that by the time Narcissa had reacquired him as a target, he had re-appeared behind her and, using his good arm, he seized the wands from her hand and thrust both under her throat.

'You were saying?' he murmured dangerously into her ear. 'You haven't won until I'm _dead_, darling.'

Narcissa paused, shifting her gaze from Draco to the wands at her throat, and slowly smiled. Then, with a sickening _snap, _she seized Lucius' broken wrist, gave it a painful twist and yanked her throat out of harm's way. As she twisted his wrist she spun around behind him, taking his arm with her, and simultaneously thrust her elbow into the shoulder of the arm she held, and kicked the back of one of his knees.

Lucius hit the floor on his other hand and knee, cursing harshly. He still held the wands and, using the heel of her boot, Narcissa trapped his hand between her foot and the floor. Smirking and still holding his arm at an unnatural angle behind his back, Narcissa calmly scooped her wand from the floor and used it to smooth back some of the hair from her husband's face.

'Are you dead yet, sweetheart?' she asked sweetly.

'Hardly.' Lucius managed to say the words with a sneer, despite the rather painful position his body was twisted into.

Narcissa tutted. 'How's your wrist feeling?'

'Brilliant,' Lucius replied dryly. 'Are you quite finished? This sadistic conduct of yours is getting dull.'

Sighing dramatically, Narcissa released his wounded arm, but did not remove her foot from his hand, instead squatting down beside him and poising her wand neatly under his chin.

'You're no fun anymore,' she drawled.

Lucius' expression flickered ever so slightly; one eyebrow arched just a tick, his head tilted to the side, and the malevolence from the argument and the duel disappeared as if blown out like a candle. 'I don't recall ever being any fun,' he replied smoothly.

Draco was obviously missing something important; he had never, not once, seen his parents have a full-on row, but he had noticed something like this on many occasions. His mother frequently infuriated his father on different levels, something Draco himself was not brave enough to do, and even though he had never seen her bow to his father's temper, they always managed to resolve the issue without even raising their voices. Draco had finally given up trying to figure it out, and just accepted the fact that he did not understand his parents.

Narcissa gave him that slow, sagacious smile again and brought her face very close to his. 'You have a _terrible_ memory,' she told him.

'You're welcome to refresh it,' Lucius offered.

_This is disgusting_, Draco decided and, rolling his eyes in a very exaggerated fashion, left the room.

Neither of them noticed him go.

: : : : :

_The Daily Prophet_**  
POTTER GIVES UP THE SNITCH**_  
Boy Who Lived passes up Puddlemere's Seeker position!_

The article Draco had taken from Auror Headquarters was nearly three years old. He had read it over several times, more out of boredom than anything, and each time, he felt a small twinge of disbelief at how unbelievably idiotic the entire ordeal was. Harry Potter turning down a professional Seeker position? No wonder it had made headlines, it was a bloody mental thing to do, no matter what he claimed his excuses were. Everyone _knew_ Harry Potter was made to be a Seeker—even Draco would acknowledge that, albeit grudgingly, if anyone had the means to make him admit it. It was as if flying were written into Harry's genetic code, he was just thatgood. Puddlemere had seemed to think so, anyway, if they had offered him a spot on the team without so much as holding official tryouts.

Stupidity must have also been written into Harry's genetic code, Draco thought, for Harry to turn them down.

Draco had been, not surprisingly, unable to sleep at all. The shift-lag from his transformation had been uncharacteristically bad, probably due to the fact that he had had nothing to eat beforehand and had not eaten afterwards, despite the fact that Dobby had a tempting entrée of lamb cutlets waiting when they arrived back at Harry's flat; nothing ruined a healthy appetite for meat like morphing into a herbivore with a strict diet of grass and alfalfa. The smell of the cooked meat alone had made him feel nauseous.

Harry had said very little on the trip back. That had surprised Draco, for he had expected an onslaught of questions from Harry about what the memories had meant, or how he had managed to attain an Animagus form without any sort of help, or even a demand to know what sort of arrangements Draco had made for the trip to the Manor—but his personal antagonist kept his thoughts to himself, effectively handing Draco the cold shoulder.

Snubbing was a ploy of Potter's that Draco had grown very familiar with over their years together at Hogwarts. It infuriated Draco to be treated this way by anyone, especially someone like Harry, from whom Draco felt was owed recognition. Being ignored by Harry was worse than being ignored by his own father; Lucius, at least, had proven how important a figure he was. Harry was nothing special—he liked to pretend he was, Draco had always known better—but Harry still ignored Draco like it was nothing, because Harry thought he was better than Draco.

Draco suspected that Harry was well aware of how it made him feel, and ostracised him on purpose just to piss him off.

Draco dropped the old _Prophet_ on the coffee table, squinting in the first rays of sunlight that were creeping through the windows. Not having slept wasn't enough to break his habit of being up and running at six every morning, for he was able to manage the lack of sleep easily—he always had been. He supposed that it had to do with his mother being right, as all mothers tended to be—Narcissa was of the opinion that her son possessed an unusually high metabolism. According to her, Draco had been a nightmare child between the ages of three and thirteen, rarely taking naps and running around for hours on end until his father had opted to buy his son a broom, so that at least _most_ of the mayhem Draco was causing occurred outside of the house. It also gave Draco the ability to eat an ungodly amount of food without ever gaining extra weight, and even the slightest amount of sugar would send him quite literally bouncing off the walls. Draco was aware that his father had complained to the Educational Board on many occasions that strict diets should be enforced for students, more than likely due to the fact that Hogwarts had been notoriously bad at encouraging Draco's hyperactive behaviour with its lavish meals and desserts every day.

Had his father known Dobby was just as responsible for Draco's inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds, the house-elf probably would have been sacked a lot sooner.

'Mr Harry Potter isn't having lots of foods Master Malfoy likes,' Dobby informed him. 'So yesterday Dobby is going to Diagon Alley and getting Master Malfoy some of his favourites!'

Nothing, Draco decided, could _ever_ make him angry enough to kick a house-elf that spoiled him this bloody rotten.

'Dobby, if it weren't for the undeniable gross factor involved,' Draco said, 'I could kiss you.'

Dobby, looking extremely pleased with himself, left Draco a large sack of goodies on the coffee table before wandering off to the kitchen to fix breakfast. Poking through the goods, Draco found his mind wandering over their plans for the upcoming day. As much as he tried to ignore them, his nerves prickled mercilessly at his consciousness.

It wasn't as if strangers had never been to the Manor before; his father had had people around constantly, so often that Draco came to recognise faces before names in many cases. But those times, his father had always been head of the house. Mature, cool, and confident, Lucius was always in complete control of any given situation, especially inside his own home. And with Mother always looking beautiful and smiling at his side, they had made ideal hosts, the picture-perfect couple you'd expect in such a wealthy estate.

During his youth, Draco's higher-than-average energy levels had frequently resulted in him being told off for amusing himself indoors when they had company and getting kicked outside like a puppy yet to be house-trained. As a result, Draco never had to worry much about house guests; all Draco would have to do was dress carefully and make sure to use 'sir' at the end of every sentence—and as long as he behaved in _front_ of them, didn't disrupt his father's business and, in general, stayed out of the way, he was free to do what he pleased.

And, so, Draco hadn't really thought about it before last night—the responsibility of turning over the Manor for investigation, much less personally escorting a troop of strangers in to dissect his home. Had things been normal, he wouldn't have had to make the arrangements, or worry about the details. Father always took care of that sort of thing. With his father gone now...

No, not _now—_that wasn't right. As far as he was concerned, his father had been dead the moment he had walked out the door.

'Master Malfoy, sir?'

Dobby sounded apprehensive. Draco took a shaky breath, rubbing the palms of his hands over his eyes. 'What time is it?' he asked.

'Quarter to seven,' said a dreamy voice behind him.

Draco nodded, opening his eyes. Dobby was still standing in front of him, looking anxious.

'Best wake up Potter—'

Torn away from his thoughts, his overly-acute senses had kicked back in. Draco stood up so quickly that it caused Dobby to squeak in alarm and fall over. Draco tried to speak, but shock seemed to have disabled control of his vocal cords, rendering him mute.

Luna Lovegood sat perched on the back of the couch he'd just been lying on—he was sure it was her, because it would have been impossible to confuse her with anyone else. She hopped off the top of the couch when he stood up, and he saw she was nearly as tall as he was, though that was mostly due to the massive heels on the bright yellow sandals she wore, each boasting what looked like a real banana strapped over her toes. Her long, dirty-blonde hair was pulled up into high pigtails, and shockingly pink earrings in the shape of stars were dangling from her ears. She was wearing a summer dress to match her earrings; it was a bright, blinding yellow, covered in bursts of neon pink stars.

'Were you crying?' she asked vaguely.

'Where the hell did you come from?' he snapped.

'Outside,' Luna said simply, pointing to the door behind her.

'I gave her a key,' came an unexpected answer from his left, causing Draco to start.

Harry had appeared poking out from the bathroom in the hallway, clad waist-down in a towel, drying his hair with another; earlier, Draco must have been engrossed enough in his thoughts to have missed Harry leaving his bedroom.

'You gave her a key.' Draco repeated.

'Morning, Harry,' Luna said dreamily, oblivious to Draco's stupefaction.

She also seemed immune to the fact that the famous Harry Potter, Quidditch player extraordinaire and third time-runner for _Witch Weekly's_ Bachelor-of-the-Year award, was standing in the hallway, half-naked and still dripping all over the carpet. Draco was sure that that was likely to get at least _some_ sort of reaction out of any normal female.

Instead, Luna was sniffing the air like a bloodhound that just caught a scent. 'Smells like Dobby made pancakes.'

'Waffles!' came the squeaked correction from the kitchen.

'Waffles?' Luna asked, perking. 'Are we expecting a Snorkack?'

And she floated off into the kitchen without further ado.

Unable to form a coherent question demanding something along the lines of, 'What in the hell is a Snorkack?', Draco just gaped.

'Jesus, Malfoy, did you sleep at all last night?' Harry asked, staring at Draco, drawing the blonde's attention back.

Draco managed to dimly note that Harry was still dripping all over the bloody carpet. He was horribly aware of the fact that he himself had not yet showered. He was also aware that the shadows under his eyes were worse than ever, and that his split lip had scabbed and was still throbbing painfully. He was even aware that his clothes, having been worn for two consecutive days, were probably beginning to stink.

This normally would have bothered him, at least enough that a part of his mind would reserve some concern for it.

'You gave _Loony_ a _key_ to your _flat?_' Draco repeated.

Harry shrugged and turned back into the bathroom.

'Luna's all right,' came the muffled explanation from inside. Harry re-emerged a minute later, sans the towels, wearing a pair of faded jeans and pulling a white t-shirt over his head. He gave Draco another once-over, his brow furrowing over his glasses. His hair was sticking up in every possible direction, as if vigorously protesting the pull of gravity. It was still very wet. And very... drippy.

'You look awful,' Harry said.

'I look awful?' Draco repeated, the shrill, incredulous tone of voice returning. '_I_ look awful? You come out of there looking like a drowned hedgehog and you've got Cyndi Lauper in your kitchen and _you_ are telling _me_ that _I_ look awful?'

Harry blinked at him. 'Who the hell is Cyndi Lauper?'

Draco may have inherited his father's handsome looks, but he had not benefited from the Malfoy line's reputable Nerves Of Steel. Lucius had once told Draco that he was more like his mother under pressure—and when the going got rough, the Blacks got hysterical.

'You are insane,' Draco informed him. 'Dripping! _Everywhere. _Giving people keys and popping naked out of bathrooms—having Snorkacks over for breakfast—what the hell is a Snorkack anyway—she's insane! _You're_ insane! Dobby is and always will be insane but at least _he_ brings me chocolate! You sopping, buggering—bloody—the _nerve_—get _out_ of my way!'

Draco shoved a bewildered Harry unceremoniously out of the way and took over the bathroom, slamming the door in Harry's face.

'Stop dripping all over the sodding carpet!' Draco yelled through the door. 'And lend me some bloody clothes!'

: : :

'In addition to detailing a report for the Ministry,' Luna was saying around a mouthful of waffle, 'Dad wants me to conduct some research for the next edition of the _Quibbler_.'

'Er,' said Harry. He did not like the sound of that.

'You know, just some minor things.' She waved a hand dismissively.

Harry swallowed his waffle before prompting, 'Such as?'

'Well, stuff about the trial, the Manor, Draco, _you_,' Luna said, waving a piece of waffle around with her fork for emphasis. 'You know. Things.'

'Er,' said Harry again, still somewhat apprehensive. 'I guess.'

'He doesn't look very good,' she continued. Luna frequently switched subjects without warning, but Harry had gotten fairly good at following her fragmented train of thought over the years. 'Though I suppose I'd be rather upset if my father died, too. You're dripping, Harry.'

Harry swept his fringe away from his forehead, shaking the water off his fingers. 'How's Ginny doing?'

'Oh, I think she was feeling much better after the meeting,' Luna said brightly.

'Really?'

'Mm,' Luna confirmed through half-chewed waffle. She swallowed before finishing. 'She spent all night throwing hexes at that picture of you in the _Prophet_.'

'Lovely,' Harry said dryly.

'Huh,' Luna said suddenly after a moment, looking up. 'You look quite odd.'

Harry followed her gaze and looked up. Standing in the doorway of the kitchen was Draco, wearing the clothes Harry had lent him, and Harry had to agree with Luna; seeing Draco Malfoy in Muggle jeans and a t-shirt _was_ kind of odd. Draco didn't look particularly _bad_—aside from the obvious sleep deprivation, he looked rather like someone that had just stepped off the cover of a posh magazine. The pointy noise that had often been the subject of jokes among Harry and his friends at Hogwarts was still there, but seemed more proportional now, as if Draco had finally grown into it. His high cheekbones were more defined now and combined with his brow and jaw, formed a crisp frame for his face. His hair was damp but not dripping like Harry's, and he was tousling it idly with his hand, causing some of it to fall over his eyes. He didn't look as pale anymore, either, but that was probably due to the contrast of his stark white t-shirt.

All in all, Draco the _wizard_ looked odd, perhaps, but Draco the person looked all right, as far as Harry could tell.

'I am not even going to bother commenting on the incredulity of you, of all people, claiming such a thing,' Draco said loftily, tucking a few damp strands of hair behind his ears. He turned his head to the side and gave it a tug with the hand in his hair, and Harry heard the crack of bones as Draco grimaced in relief. Luna offered Draco a plate as he sat down but he waved it away. 'Eugh, no.'

'You really should eat,' Harry advised.

'You really should sod off,' Draco replied automatically. 'Dobby!'

With a _crack!_ Dobby materialised before him. He seemed to have anticipated the command, because he already had a steaming cup of coffee, and he presented it to Draco before disappearing again. Instead of drinking it, Draco put the coffee on the table and held his head over it, breathing in the steam.

By the time Harry finished his breakfast, he noticed Draco had his head tilted to the side and was giving him and Luna comparative glances. 'Are you two—' he started to ask.

'No,' Harry said firmly, before Draco could finish. 'We're not.'

Luna may have been one of the oddest people Harry knew, but she had been sorted into Ravenclaw for good reason. The girl caught on quick; sometimes, too quick, and she laughed loudly at the implication. 'No, no, that's just what he wants the other women to think,' she said smartly, licking the syrup off her fingertips, 'so they leave him alone.'

'_Other_ women?' Draco asked with a blink.

'Oh, yes,' Luna said cheerfully. 'There's a few women at the office, that nice one at the Owlery, the lady down in the Magical Law Enforcement department, and there's that very pretty one—what's her name? Gabby-something-or-other, anyway, but she's just turned fifteen, so—'

'Fifteen?' Draco repeated. '_Fifteen?_'

'Mm,' Luna confirmed. 'Harry's not interested, of course, but the _Prophet_—'

'Luna, please,' Harry said patiently.

'You have to admit she _is_ very pretty, Harry. And she really does fancy you, you know. Ginny was—'

'_Luna_,' Harry said again, warningly.

Luna merely shrugged and helped herself to another waffle. Draco, who had been listening intently, also shrugged, and sat back, as if he couldn't care less anyway. 'Oh, the great woes of Harry Potter,' he said. 'All of these beautiful women throwing themselves at my feet, whatever shall I do?'

'Shut up, Malfoy.'

'Some of these women aren't even of age—but they're _very pretty_,' Draco continued, ignoring the glare that clearly said that Harry was not amused. 'What do you think the Azkaban sentence for fornicating with jailbait is, Potter? Hoping to get out of it with a pay-off and clever use of your celebrity status?'

'Funnily enough, that's what saved _your_ arse,' Harry growled.

'Hey, I'm not complaining,' Draco said.

'You're always complaining,' Harry corrected him.

'Yes, well,' Draco conceded. He looked as if he were going to say more, but stopped when he looked up. Harry followed his gaze and saw a handsome owl with dark feathers sitting on the open windowsill; the Malfoy family's eagle owl. Draco lifted a forearm and called it: 'Ares.'

Ares landed on Draco's arm and hopped sideways along it up to his shoulder, where it gave a muffled hoot and fixed Luna with a piercing gaze. Draco took a sip of his untouched coffee and stood up. 'That means he's here. Let's go.'

'Who's here?' Harry asked.

'Our transportation,' Draco said, not bothering to offer further detail. 'Unless you're still keen on walking.' He pushed back the chair with his foot and stalked across the room. Luna stood up and drifted after Draco as he made his way to the door without a word. Harry massaged his temples briefly before moving to follow, just as a tug on the knee of his jeans halted him.

Dobby was looking up at Harry with wide, worried eyes. 'Mr Harry Potter is going to the Malfoy house?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'But don't worry, it's—'

'It is a house of dark wizards, sir, you must be being very careful!' Dobby interrupted urgently. 'There is things in there that is dangerous, even to such great wizards as Harry Potter!'

'Dobby,' Harry said, exasperated. Although frequently paranoid and prone to cause more harm than good when trying to be helpful, Dobby had warned Harry about the Malfoys before, and for good reason. 'Look,' he said, when Dobby's bottom lip began to tremble, 'I will be. I don't trust him, either.'

'It is not Master Draco that Harry Potter is needing to worry about,' Dobby whispered quietly, 'but what is being passed on to him!'

Before Harry could ask what Dobby was talking about, Draco had stuck his head back through the door. 'Are you coming, or what? I'm not going anywhere alone with this lunatic girlfriend of yours.'

'Be careful, sir,' Dobby said before disappearing with a snap.

'Yeah, I'm coming,' Harry told Draco, frowning, and grabbed his cloak off the chair—it held both Draco's wand and Harry's Invisibility Cloak, which nowadays he rarely went anywhere without. Harry stepped out the door and swung it closed behind him, and then stopped abruptly when he looked up.

'You've got to be joking,' he said.

Draco raised an eyebrow. He was leaning against the door of a long, black limousine that was parked on the street, which at this early hour on a Saturday morning was deserted. It was still a bit chilly despite the light, and a cool breeze made Harry shiver as he trotted down the remaining stairs. Draco stepped aside as the cab of the limo opened, and a thin, balding man dressed in black robes stepped out and moved to open the door Draco had been reclining against.

Luna was already inside, and scooted over as Harry stuck his head in; it was, admittedly, a very nice limousine. It had tinted windows and the seats were soft, creamy leather, and it was stocked with a wide array of refreshments, from pumpkin pasties to mini-bottles of Butterbeer. Draco made an impatient noise from outside and Harry climbed in, sitting next to Luna. Draco followed, taking the long seat across from them, and the bald man closed the door without a word. Ares fluttered from Draco's shoulder to the back window of the limo, where an owl perch had been built into the vehicle.

'Who is that?' Harry asked as the bald man, visible through the privacy window separating them, climbed back into the cab and started the car.

'Amery Matlack,' Draco said, stretching out along the seat. 'Old friend of the family—relax,' he said, as Harry narrowed his eyes. 'He's a Ministry driver, but he served as our primary chauffeur during Fudge's regime. He knows the way.'

'You do know the whole point of us leaving early was so the Ministry _wouldn't_ be aware of what we were doing,' Harry said.

'They won't,' Draco said with a smug smirk. 'At least, not until they start paying him as well as I do.'

'And what about the others?'

'Weasley sent an owl this morning while you were asleep,' Draco explained; 'said to pick them up outside number four, Grimmauld Place.' Draco cocked his head. 'Very inconspicuous pickup point, I must say.'

Luna was petting Ares' breast feathers and the owl crooned appreciatively. Harry rolled his eyes. 'About as inconspicuous as us taking the trip in a limo,' he said.

'Sorry if my opulence offends you.'

'No, you're not.'

Draco fixed him with a stern look. 'You're right, I'm not,' he replied. 'But I am sorry I even bother trying to be polite.' And with that, he lay back along the seats, draped an arm over his eyes and proceeded to ignore them both.

: : :

Hermione knew that most wizarding vehicles could stretch magically to accommodate more than their visual allowance of passengers, but the limousine didn't need to; it was easily large enough on its own for the eight of them. Harry and Luna sat beside Terry and herself on the right side, while Arthur and Moody sat on either side of Lupin along the backseat.

Draco took up the left-hand side of the limo himself, lying across the seats on his back with a forearm draped over his eyes so he could pretend he was asleep and ignore any attempted conversation. Hermione knew he wasn't really asleep because every once in a while, when Luna would ask a particularly odd question for her _Quibbler_ report, the corners of his mouth would twitch, ever so slightly.

It seemed Draco had been wise to hire a chauffeur; the entire trip they had found themselves surrounded by vast farmland and estates that would have necessitated a long walk had they decided to Apparate and hike the rest of the way. From the limited information she'd been able to pry from Draco at the beginning of their trip, the Manor was located in Wiltshire somewhere, vaguely northeast of Devizes. Thanks to the added convenience of wizard vehicles being able to avoid other cars, traffic lights and speed limits set by Muggles, it took them half the time it would have taken by normal car; at just fifty minutes past seven, the limo took a turn off the main motorway and Draco slowly sat up, yawning.

They had turned into a one-lane paved road that continued through some sparse trees between what looked like two farm plots, heading north. The further they drove, the thicker the trees became, until they nearly blocked the early morning sunlight out completely. After approximately twenty minutes, the car turned again onto a smooth dirt road. Just inside the turn was a tall, barred gate that looked very old and was covered with several layers of vine—instead of slowing down, the driver sped up, and Hermione held her breath as they should have crashed into the gate.

It was a wizarding illusion, of course, just like the entrance to platform nine and three quarters at King's Cross; the limousine slid through smoothly, and they emerged onto another road, this one paved and walled in on either side by tall, thick trees—much larger and older than those from the previous countryside.

'Are we here?' Harry asked, yawning himself, and looking around.

Draco was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands supporting his chin. He looked agitated and very tired. 'Almost,' he said.

The trees continued to construct an impervious wall of green on either side of the road, however, with no indication of abating anytime soon. Draco continued to stare out the front over Matlack's shoulder, fingering a small chain that was just visible under the collar of his t-shirt.

Luna was beginning to tap her fingers on the seat in an irritating manner when finally, Draco said, 'Just left, here.'

Hermione peered out the window. They were still surrounded by trees on all sides, and there were no turn-offs, trails or any other breaks in the foliage that she could see. In fact, the part of the road they'd slowed on looked no different from the past fifteen minutes' of road they'd driven along. Then the car turned left up a small alley that Hermione swore they would have driven right past without noticing had Draco not pointed it out.

It led to more trees. Hermione craned her neck to peer out the front windscreen. What had appeared to be a rapidly approaching speck in the distant trees had manifested itself into a large gate with black iron bars that criss-crossed and twisted around one another in various intricate patterns. Two massive stone dragons in sitting positions sat on either side of the gate, looking nasty and imposing. As they approached, Hermione could have sworn she saw them dip their heads in a small salute; but then she blinked, and when she looked again, they had returned to their original positions.

In the middle of the gate, directly between the two dragons, was the Malfoy family crest. Underneath the crest was a large, intricate letter 'M' moulded into the iron weaving of the gate itself.

The limousine began to slow down; unlike the first gate, this one did open—it split in the middle and swung outward in a majestic arc, and Terry promptly choked on the water he was drinking.

It was impossible to notice anything else at first besides the sheer size of the Manor. Spread horizontally before them was an ancient, dark grey Neo-Renaissance chateau. The front yard was all neatly tended lawn aside from scattered trees, all low-rising with wide canopies, creating dapple-shade patterns on the ground leading up to the front entrance. From the front she could see that the main entrance to the home broke off into at least two separate wings, one to the left and the other to the right.

It was two stories tall with a half-story attic, and was punctuated with many large windows, all divided into smaller frames that were dark on the inside. It was still fairly early, and with the high trees surrounding the estate, the sun was just barely creeping over the horizon as the limousine pulled up the white-gravel, circular court in front of the house and slowed to a stop.

There was a brief pause as the vehicle halted in which nobody moved, until Moody gave a rather sharp cough and climbed out of the door to his left. Slowly and silently the rest of them followed, Draco coming last and offhandedly kicking the door shut.

Matlack climbed out of the cab, holding the door open. 'Will that be all, sir?' he asked.

He sounded like he was addressing a politician. Draco seemed to start slightly when he realised that Matlack was, in fact, speaking to him. 'Er, yes. Thank you.'

'Anytime, Mr Malfoy,' Matlack replied, tipping his hat and disappearing back inside the limousine.

Draco watched until the limo had disappeared through the gate before turning back to the rest of them, who were waiting in a disproportioned cluster at the foot of the front steps. Harry and Terry were doing nothing to hide their surprise at the sheer size of the place, and this close, the Manor looked extremely foreboding to Hermione in the dim light.

Moody had already climbed most of the stairs leading to the front door, which was large and made of a dark-coloured wood with no windows, and mounted on which was a silver, medieval-looking dragon's head for a doorknocker. It snarled as Moody reached it.

'Good to see some things never change,' Moody muttered as the doorknocker snapped nastily at his head.

'Is your house always this accommodating?' Hermione asked, frowning at the snarling handle.

Draco smirked. 'Always,' he said. He reached up and rubbed the silver head's snout, and it cooed appreciatively. There was a long, echoing series of clicks from the other side of the door, as if many locks were disengaging, and then it swung silently inward.

Standing just inside was the shadowy outline of a woman. She stepped forward as the door finished opening and stood in the doorway, and lifted an elegant arm to touch Draco's chin with her fingers and kiss him softly on the forehead. 'Morning, dear,' she said in an undertone so soft Hermione had to strain to hear it.

She looked Draco over and her eyes narrowed slightly in what Hermione guessed were disgust at seeing her son in Muggle clothing. Shee briefly cast her eyes on Arthur, Moody, Luna and then Hermione, and for a moment, Hermione expected her to say something typically rude about their heritage or appearance—but the nasty look on her face was only there an instant before it was replaced with a polite, impersonal expression. It was rather unsettling, for the Narcissa Hermione remembered had always been as nasty as her son and husband.

Harry and Terry both seemed to have been clubbed over the head; they were staring quite stupidly and Terry's mouth was slightly agape. If Narcissa noticed, she ignored it. 'Welcome,' she said after a brief pause, 'to our home.'

: : :_  
_

_Riches cover a multitude of woes._  
- Lady of Andros

: : :

'Hullo, Narcissa,' Lupin said pleasantly.

'Remus,' she acknowledged, greeting him with a brief nod. Harry noted that, unlike the few times he'd heard her in close quarters before, she spoke in a very light, pleasant tone of voice. She glanced at the others with a single sweep of her eyes—two orbs of a bright, startling baby blue—which came to rest on Harry. 'It's been quite a while.'

She must still have been talking to Lupin, because he answered, 'Yes, quite.'

Harry continued to struggle not to gape. His first thought was hardly a decent one, and he quickly cast it aside. His second was that Narcissa looked impossibly young to have a son his own age.

His third was that Lucius had hardly deserved _that_.

'Well, what kind of a host am I?' she asked, startling Harry with a rather nervous smile that looked completely alien on her. 'Come on in.'

One by one, they followed her inside. Harry had seen Draco's mother before, once when he was fourteen at the World Cup, at sixteen briefly in Madam Malkin's, and more recently at Draco's trial. Each of these times, Harry had been distracted or very angry at Draco or Lucius, who had been his main focus, and Narcissa had always been wearing a rather nasty expression on her face—and for these reasons, Harry had paid her very little direct attention. He found that hard to believe now that he had given her a good look, and he had also realised where Draco got his looks. Before, he had assumed that Draco was more like his father in all aspects, appearances included. In some cases, this was accurate—he had the same sharp nose and chin, the same white-blonde hair, and the same piercing grey eyes, but the physical resemblance to Lucius ended there. Draco's high cheekbones, exaggerated eyebrows, elegant posture and even his lips were all mirrored directly from his mother.

She held herself as one would expect of an important politician, but managed to do so with an aura that was less snobbish and more confident than her son's. She had long hair that was a sort of pale, metallic gold pulled into an elaborate twist atop her head. Dressed in a gown that would not have been out of place at a fancy dinner, she looked ridiculously extravagant and refined compared to everyone else in the room—even Draco, dressed as he still was in Harry's casual attire.

The shock of finding himself attracted to Draco's mother was quickly replaced with the shock of noticing where he was standing. He was pretty sure he wasn't the only one trying to restrain the urge to gape this time. Harry had been in a lot of fancy buildings since discovering he was a wizard, and even the few homes he'd been in on Privet Drive had belonged to wealthy families—but he had never seen anything quite like this.

From the looks of the outside, Harry had been expecting a rather cluttered, overly-adorned inside, with lots of tapestries and ornamental carpets and painted ceilings like Grimmauld Place; but the decorations were surprisingly subtle—hardly plain, but subtle, and Harry found the understated décor somehow more appealing. Smooth, creamy-coloured stone walls rose up around them, twice as high as what would be considered normal for any standard home. The floor was a very dark, rich hardwood that stretched across the length of the rectangular room. Two square, exquisitely carved pillars made of the same wood as the floor framed either side of a wide, spilling marble staircase that curved down from the floor above. The ceiling was the same dark wood as well, heavily carved and decorated. The outside wall was divided by many large, open windows that allowed in the ever-rising rays of light.

There were no furnishings in the entry room save for the large, Venetian chandelier that hung from the middle of the ceiling. Pale, blooming lilies made of blown glass supported unlit candles. It sparkled blindingly in the incoming sunlight.

'This is nice,' Luna said approvingly. She was a painful, neon eyesore against the warm tones of the room. 'Very _recherché_.'

'I like to think so,' Narcissa said mildly in a tone that was engineered for polite conversation. 'A nightmare to keep up, though. Thank goodness for house-elves.' Hermione made an indistinguishable noise in her nose, but Narcissa either did not hear it or politely ignored her. 'Would you like some tea?'

'No,' said Draco in an impatient tone.

'Yes,' Luna said over him.

'If it's not too much trouble,' Arthur added.

'We already ate,' Draco pointed out.

'It was a long trip,' Narcissa reasoned. Draco's jaw tightened, which she also ignored. 'Draco, if you could kindly call Nivens, he'll be delighted to know we have guests.'

'They're not guests,' Draco snapped. 'They're here for business, not for exchanging bloody pleasantries over biscuits—'

'_Draco_.' The severity of the tone his mother had used stopped Draco mid-tirade. His glare was not directed at her, but the wall behind her, as he refused to meet the reproachful look she'd fixed him with. 'Call Nivens, if you would, darling,' Narcissa said after a moment.

The word 'darling' had a bit of a warning beneath it. Draco finally looked at her and, without a word, strode down the short staircase and disappeared down the hall.

'You'll have to forgive my son,' Narcissa said apologetically once Draco was beyond earshot. 'He's had a rather trying week.'

The sharpness in Narcissa's gaze was gone, and she smiled brightly at the lot of them. Bathed in the ever-increasing rays of sunlight filtering into the entryway, she looked, if possible, even prettier. Harry caught himself staring and shook his head briefly, allowing the alarmingly loud colours of Luna's dress to hold his gaze instead.

'Understandable,' Lupin said.

'Mm,' Luna agreed. Hermione shuffled nervously, throwing Harry a questioning look.

'So,' Narcissa said after a small pause. 'Biscuits?'

: : :

_Biscuits_. They were offering them tea and _biscuits_. They were having a bloody _tea party_. Why didn't he just take down the wards on the Manor, set up an Open House sign in the front lawn and send Voldemort an invitation by owl? Oh, _right_, because that wouldn't be _proper._ If he wanted to be _proper_ he'd have to send the Dark Lord a complimentary limo filled with expensive champagne and a couple of hookers.

Even biscuits weren't enough, it would seem, for his mother had gone and prepared herself as she would have for esteemed guests; the gown was nothing unusual, but although Narcissa was very pretty on her own, she had clearly used several glamour charms on herself before their arrival, if Harry and Terry's utterly dumbfounded looks were any indication.

Narcissa had closed the door to his room and stood by it, regarding him quietly for several minutes.

'That was uncalled for.'

Draco continued to pace his room. He didn't answer immediately. There was a monument of things he wished to say, but none of them would be considered respectable enough to direct at his mother.

Narcissa watched him in silence, waiting for a response. She seemed unconcerned with the severity of the scowl on his face—the woman had the patience and resolve of stone when she required it. Finally, unable to find any other way of expressing himself, Draco stopped to face her.

'Biscuits?' he demanded sharply. '_Biscuits?_'

His mother folded her arms and gave him the severe look she reserved for when she felt her son was being unreasonable. 'What's wrong, Draco?' she asked patiently. 'We discussed this before you left.'

'Funny, because I don't remember biscuits _anywhere_ in the discussion!_' _he snapped. 'You walk out there beaming and cheerful like you're entertaining the bloody Minister and you're asking me what's _wrong_ with that?'

'Lower your voice,' she reprimanded him. 'I'm doing what I have to.'

'You don't have to do anything! That's what this was all about!'

'_No_, Draco—' he winced at the volume she had adopted, '—that is _not_ what this is about. _I_ am not the one who needs protecting here.'

Draco sighed heavily and looked at the floor, unable to hold her gaze any longer.

'Do you think it is easy for me,' she continued in a low voice, 'to stand out there and _smile_ at that boy? Do you think it's _easy_ for me to welcome him into my home? Every time I look into his eyes, I think what it might have been like if he'd died, and Lucius was still with us. Just like every time I look at him with you, I wonder what it might have been like if Severus _hadn't_ been there that day, and if I'd been robbed of you both.'

'Then why_—'_

'Because we need to. By the time I figured out what was ruining your father it was too late to do anything about it, and I will not allow the same fate to befall you! These people are willing to help you, and you need to _use that_. I can't protect you on my own anymore, and I swore I would do whatever it took—and if that means smiling in their faces and feeding them biscuits, then it's the bloody _least_ I can do!'

Draco folded his arms and continued to glare at the floor. 'You don't have to do anything,' he said again, although much more quietly.

Narcissa watched him for a moment, and then very gently pulled his head back up by his chin, tilted his face to the side and frowned. 'You're not eating, are you?'

Draco scowled again. All mothers, he decided, were born with Special Powers. They always just _knew_.

'I'm fine,' he said dismissively, pulling away.

'Draco—'

'It's nothing.'

'_Draco—_'

'Mum, _don't_.'

'Don't start this nonsense again,' she said reprovingly. 'I'll have Nivens bring you something, and you—'

'I'm not hungry.'

'—_will_ _eat it,_' she finished firmly. 'No one is doing anything in this house until you do, and I _don't_,' she added sternly as Draco showed signs of protesting, 'want to hear that you're "not hungry". You will also,' she continued without pause, 'at least _attempt _to get some sleep tonight. Do you understand me?' After a considerable pause, she added, '_Draco._'

Heaving another heavy sigh, Draco said, 'Yes, Mother.'

'Good,' she said, her pleasant hostess voice returning. 'Now, go change out of those ridiculous clothes and I'll have something brought up for you.'

She kissed him briskly on the cheek and, with a motherly pat on his shoulder, departed the room.

By the time Nivens arrived with food, Draco had already changed into his own clothes, sending the house-elf away with the jeans and shirt he'd borrowed from Harry. He stared at the tray of food for a while, knowing that if he didn't eat it, his mother would notice and reprimand him about it, but at the same time... he inhaled a whiff and his stomach gave a sickening lurch, wedging itself somewhere in his throat. He was about to Vanish the contents of his tray when he realised, not for the first time in the past several days, that he did not have possession of his wand. This tiny irritation was stacked neatly on top of the tower of tiny irritations that had been building up inside his person over the last two days, the last week, and the last four years of his life.

Nivens appeared again with another _crack_ and peered hopefully at the tray he had left behind. Seeing it untouched, he frowned and looked up at Draco with apologetic eyes. 'Sir, Mistress is saying Master needs to eat his food,' Nivens said carefully.

'Well you can tell _Mistress_ that Master Malfoy isn't hungry,' he said wearily.

'Mistress says that if Master isn't hungry,' the house-elf continued, 'that Master should still eat, sir.'

The tower began to waver dangerously. 'Nivens,' Draco said sharply. 'Get rid of the food, and then go and tell my mother I ate it.'

'But, sir—'

'_Now_.'

One upside of his being the official owner of the Manor, at least, was that Nivens was unable to refuse a direct order from Draco—even if it included lying to his mother. With an anxious sniff, the house-elf collected the tray, Vanished the food, and disappeared with a snap. Grateful at being left alone, Draco wandered blearily into his bathroom.

'Well, well, look what the Crup dragged in. You look awfully cadaverous this morning,' the mirror informed him cheerfully. 'Bad day?'

Draco winced at his reflection; Harry—and the mirror—were right, he looked completely _awful. _No wonder his mother had had a fit.

There was only a limited degree of things he could do to improve his appearance without a wand, but it would be better than nothing. The mirror continued to supply suggestions over the next ten minutes as he dug through the cupboard beneath the sink. 'Well, that's definitely an improvement,' it said as Draco gave up on trying anything else without a wand and left the bathroom. At the very least he looked less pale and exhausted than when he had gone in, having splashed cold water over his face and brushed his hair in an orderly manner, and he also felt marginally better.

This feeling dropped like a dead weight in the pit of his stomach as he opened the door of his room and came nose-to-nose with a wildly spinning, electric-blue eye and a face that looked like it had lost a fight with a Nose-Biting Teacup. Draco made a noise of surprise that, roughly translated, resembled 'Yaugh!' and stumbled backwards. Mad-Eye Moody was definitely someone better viewed at a safe distance. Draco had always disliked the man, and most especially right now for having the ability to make him feel like a fourteen-year-old again with so little as a glance.

'I don't know what you're up to, Malfoy,' Moody snarled from the doorway, 'but I got my _eye_ on you, make no mistake.'

Straightening up, Draco sneered at him. 'Do you make a habit of exercising slander?'

'Don't impugn my intelligence, boy,' Moody growled. 'Your father didn't fool me and I'll be damned if you do. We didn't come here to eat biscuits all afternoon, so let's get going.'

: : :

'This place,' Harry was saying, 'is so... so...' he trailed off, adjectives failing him.

'Big?' Hermione offered.

Terry, swallowing his mouthful of biscuit, looked over at her. '"Enormous" is more the word, I'd wager.'

'Well, it is a mansion, after all,' Hermione said. 'They tend to be... extravagant.'

'Imposing,' Harry amended.

'Seriously,' Terry said, nodding in agreement. 'I knew the Malfoys were rich but this...' Harry's inability to articulate anything seemed to have passed to him, because he failed to finish and tried again with, 'And his _mum_, she's...' and then just trailed off uncertainly and let his pale eyes wander around the drawing room they were waiting in.

Harry scowled and folded his arms. 'What this is, is appalling,' he finished for Terry. 'I mean, bloody hell, I didn't think Malfoy was _this_ loaded.'

Like most, Harry had always known the Malfoys were a wealthy, upper-class family; it was hard not to notice, with Draco strutting about being a big-headed snot and with his father stocking the Slytherin team with brand new, top-of-the-line brooms. Considering into the equation this new information of just how ridiculously well-off the bastard was made his previous behaviour seem a lot more restrained.

'I like it,' Luna said. Just to the left of where Terry was wavering uncertainly, she was sitting sideways in the armchair with her legs draped over the side, bobbing them restlessly. 'It's very shiny.'

It was very shiny; the Manor was home to many, many—hundreds, perhaps—windows, most of which lacked drapes and allowed in enormous amounts of light. This light reflected off everything, from the chandeliers to the marble accents and the polished floors, leaving the place looking shockingly bright and clean from corner to corner. The furnishings in the Manor were mainly all warm colours, beiges and browns and various shades of pale yellow. This gave it a very friendly, homely sort of feel that made Harry feel distinctly out of place.

'I told you it wouldn't be what you'd expect,' Arthur said, smiling faintly. He was sitting on a sofa next to Lupin, who was periodically sipping his tea.

'Yes, it is very nice,' Lupin agreed, 'Always has been.'

'You've been here before?' Harry asked.

'Once,' Lupin said, looking reminiscent. 'Long time ago.'

'What for?'

Lupin looked up with an odd sort of smile. 'Lucius and Narcissa's wedding.'

'Really?' Hermione asked, putting down the book she'd been nosing through. 'Why were you—'

'Sirius and Narcissa were still on friendly terms when she married,' Lupin explained. 'We were only thirteen at the time, you see; Narcissa was married to Lucius shortly after they finished Hogwarts. The following Christmas, as a matter of fact—James and I were visiting Sirius for a couple of weeks over the holidays, so they brought us along.'

'My father was here?' Harry asked, looking surprised.

'Oh, yes,' said Lupin. 'We were all too young to realise what sort of wizards the Malfoys were; the war hadn't really broken out yet, you see, and I think Sirius just wanted some company since he and Regulus never got on well. Abaraxas—Lucius' father—had a makeshift Quidditch pitch erected in the back grounds, and Sirius and your father spent most of the reception out there, zooming around on brooms.' He smiled at the memory. 'I'll never forget James trying to convince your grandparents to set up goalposts in their garden after that.'

'I wouldn't have thought they'd allow a werewolf to attend the wedding,' Terry said, sitting on the arm of the chair Luna was in.

'They probably wouldn't have,' Lupin admitted. 'But it was hardly common knowledge at the time. I was just "that quiet boy" that tagged along behind Sirius and your father, according to Narcissa; she was Head Girl during our second year at Hogwarts, so she ended up being the one tutoring me through the lessons I missed that year because of my monthly sick-leave.'

'So that's how you knew her,' Harry said, mostly to himself.

'But what happened? With Narcissa and Sirius, I mean,' Hermione asked.

'Oh, well, you know...' Lupin shrugged. 'Once Lucius became an active Death Eater and Sirius got older and became involved with the Order... they weren't the only family torn apart by the war. Narcissa was loyal to her family—and to her husband—and, like most of the family, took Sirius' "betrayal" to heart.' He paused, and then added, 'I know she appears to be little more than a trophy wife, but you would all do well not to underestimate Narcissa. She's smarter than she looks.'

The door to the drawing room opened suddenly, and Draco came in, followed by a limping Mad-Eye Moody. Draco was looking less irate and his hair was in order, and he was no longer in Harry's clothes. Now he was wearing elegant wizard robes; they were black and billowed behind him as he swept through the room without a word and stopped in the space before the hearth between the two sofas the group of them were scattered on.

Harry turned around mid-pace, arms folded tightly over his chest, just in time to see Draco thrust out his hand at the floor before the hearth; without so much as a sound, a rectangle in the floor in front of him vanished and revealed a small set of wooden stairs that spiralled out of view.

'You won't find it any different than the last time you raided the place,' Draco said nastily, without looking at Moody or Arthur. 'Father sold most of it to Borgin and Burkes before the Ministry could get their hands on it.'

'And the rest of it went into the cache in the library, I suppose?' Arthur prompted mildly.

Draco paused before slowly looking over his shoulder at Arthur. 'So you knew.'

'Oh, we knew,' growled Moody.

'Never were able to prove it, though,' Arthur added with a small smile.

'Then I won't waste your time,' Draco said smoothly. He waved his hand once over the space in the floor, and it became solid hardwood once more. 'This way.'

Draco led the group out of the drawing room and back into the main hall. Harry kept pace behind him, Arthur beside him and Moody limping just behind them. The rest of the group followed in a bit of a scattered cluster, with Lupin bringing up the rear. It was a short trip from the drawing room to the library, which was behind two large, wooden doors that seemed to be located in the rear centre of the mansion.

It was a huge, circular room and every wall featured built-in bookshelves that housed hundreds, if not thousands, of texts. A large hearth sat cold and quiet on the left side of the room, surrounded by two armchairs and an embroidered green chaise, and directly across from there was a huge oak desk that was bare save for an inkwell and quill stand. A crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the high, domed ceiling and opposite the door, the wall was divided into the panes of a large window.

The floor was of the same rich hardwood as the rest of the house, only in here it had been laid to depict a circular pattern to compliment the shape of the room. By the time Harry had taken all of this in, Draco was standing in the centre of the room, waiting for them to get over the size of the library and follow him inside. Harry took one step over the threshold and stoppedt; he pulled his foot back, and wondered if he had imagined it. So he tried again, and this time Hermione stepped with him, and then they both stopped.

The floor was _singing_.

This first thought was absurd, Harry reasoned, because floors can't sing. They're floors. He took a step further into the room, and there it was again—the floor under his foot emitted a soft but high-pitched note, like a single pluck of a harp, that rang through the air in the room and set Harry's hair on end. The others had started filtering into the room by now, and every step they took resulted in a similar noise. Each one had a slightly different tone, so that with the whole lot of them walking on the floor it sounded like a haphazardly composed song that reverberated off the bookcases.

Hermione and Terry seemed to come to roughly the same conclusion as Harry had, because they stopped walking, too. The others—with the exception of Luna, who drifted on serenely—noticed the decrease in noise level after a few seconds, and turned to look at them; Arthur and Lupin smiled indulgently while Moody gave an impatient snort, looking very much like he wanted to get on with things and didn't care for the interruption, and stomped across the room.

Luna seemed to become aware of the others once more at this point, and turned to them with a faintly quizzical expression on her face; Harry had to wonder whether she'd even noticed the sound. With the cease of the final set of footsteps, the sound died down considerably, but every shift in weight, every uneven breath, seemed to coax some quiet variation of the noise, anything from a barely-audible hum to a sharp, high-pitched squeal. Draco smirked and took a few steps towards them; under his feet, the floor remained silent aside from the click of his boot soles against the wood.

Harry took a cautious step forward and winced when the sound rang out again; it wasn't that the noise was unpleasant, but it was extremely distracting. He tried shifting his weight again, but while the sharp note turned into a dull hum and changed its tone slightly, it was just as obvious. Harry frowned.

'Don't bother,' Draco said, noting Harry's determination to mimic his silent stroll across the room. 'It's not something you can learn overnight, walking across a Nightingale floor.'

Hermione made a soft 'Ooh!' of understanding and Terry raised his eyebrows, looking impressed. 'I didn't know any of these still existed,' Hermione said in slight awe. 'Besides in the old Japanese temples and shrines, I mean. I never knew any were still in use—'

'Kindly don't confuse this with its inferior Muggle counterparts,' Draco interrupted sharply.

'I'm sorry,' Harry said, irritated that yet again, his ignorance of the wizarding world was showing through, 'but what are you talking about?'

'Nightingale floors,' Hermione said, testing a floorboard with her toe and earning a low hum, 'are floors specifically designed to chirp or squeak when people walk on them—well, in the Muggle versions, anyway.'

'The versions developed by wizards are engineered with magic, not architecture,' Terry supplied.

'Yes, yes, I remember this,' Remus said, sounding reminiscent, and then smiled at Draco. 'Specifically, how very annoyed your grandfather became after discovering Sirius and James had learned how to galumph across it without eliciting a sound in under an hour.'

Draco looked slightly surprised at this bit of information, but covered it up quickly. 'Yes, well. Even so, the magic used to create them is so old and complex that very few establishments can afford to bother with spellwork.'

'They also use some of the darkest magic,' Moody growled, poking the floor with his peg leg; it let out a high-pitched squeal.

'A lot of the old magic is dark magic,' Draco said smoothly.

'A lot of the old magic is dangerous,' Hermione pointed out.

'And considering how much we know about it and how it works, that's not surprising,' Draco added.

'But what's the point?' Harry asked irritably. 'Isn't it a bit counterproductive to have a noisy floor in your library?'

'It's an alarm,' Draco replied. 'You can hear the noise of the floor throughout the house. So if any uninvited guests take a stroll in, we'd know it immediately.'

'So why have it in the library?' Harry asked.

'Because this is where it counts,' Arthur said, and Harry followed his gaze to the hearth. 'You can hear it from inside there, too, can't you?'

'Indeed,' Draco said, leading them over to the fireplace.

It was very large as far as hearths went, and could easily have taken three people side-by-side, stooping only if they were particularly tall. It was carved out of a very dark-coloured stone that had been heavily polished, and boasted a carved Malfoy crest in the centre of the top moulding. Directly above the carving and about the size of an orange was a glass sphere Harry recognised from Draco's memories the night before; inside, a vibrant and unflickering flame hovered of its own accord. To the right of it stood a small, ornate dagger on a wooden stand

Above the fireplace was a large painting; Harry was surprised that it did not depict any family members, but a large, elegant dragon with enormous wings perched on the edge of a high cliff. At first glance, the scales were white, but with a better look Harry could see they reflected light like they were made from Mother of Pearl. Its eyes were pupil-less, and glittered a thousand different colours with every turn or bob of its head—an Antipodean Opaleye.

Terry had knelt before the hearth and was tracing his wand in the air before it in complicated, structural patterns and frowning. He prodded a space just underneath the crest and there was a loud _snap_; he flinched, jerking his wand backwards. He stood up and glanced at Draco before turning to Arthur. 'That's some heavy-duty spellwork. I don't even know where to begin.'

'Same conclusion Bill came to,' Arthur agreed gravely. He looked up at Draco. 'Yes, only the lord of the Manor can access it, unless I'm mistaken.'

'I don't know what you're hoping to find,' Draco said, shrugging. 'But yes, I can open it. Are you all going?'

They looked around at each other and Moody grunted. 'I'll wait here,' he said gruffly. 'Keep an eye on things while you're in there.'

Terry nodded. 'I'll wait here, too. I need to go over the Manor wards, anyway.' He turned to Draco. 'Are they—'

'Nivens,' Draco said sharply. There was a small _crack_ and the old house-elf appeared at his side. 'Retrieve the building and ward plans for Boot—'

'While you're at it, I'd also like to see your book of accounts,' Hermione piped in.

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'Why?'

'Because we need to confirm that you haven't been supplying any suspicious third-parties with funding off the official records,' she said simply.

Draco regarded her quietly for a moment before finishing his order to Nivens. 'And bring up the books, while you're at it.' He glanced at the lot of them, impatient and exasperated. 'Anything _else_ you'd like to run past the Sneakoscope?'

Hermione looked at Harry and shrugged. 'Should do it for now,' Harry said.

'Sure you wouldn't like a private tour of my sock drawer and privy, too?' Draco sneered nastily.

'One thing at a time,' Harry replied, and he gestured towards the hearth. 'Let's start with your father's skeleton closet before we move on to yours, shall we?'

If possible, Draco's gaze became narrower. 'Go,' he snapped at Nivens, who disappeared with a nervous squeak, before looking up at Harry. 'Light the hearth, would you?'

Harry cocked his head slightly. 'Come again?'

'The hearth,' Draco repeated. 'It works like a Floo. Do you want to go in, or not?'

'I dunno, do we?'

Draco shrugged. 'Don't ask me, I've never been inside.'

Hermione blinked. 'You haven't?'

'Would you like me to spell it for you?' Draco asked. After a moment, he noticed everyone was staring at him with a mix of disbelief and confusion, and he rolled his eyes. 'I know you may find this difficult to believe, but being a Malfoy does not, in fact, automatically entail attendance of Death Eater rallies. Nor was it my father's intention to sculpt me into the quintessential servant of the Dark Lord. No, I've never been inside, but I know You-Know-Who has been, and probably a fair number of Death Eaters as well.'

'How do you know Voldemort was in here?' Harry demanded.

Draco winced at the name, shooting Harry a filthy look. 'Because I saw him. When I was fifteen, not a month after the incident at the Tournament.'

Hermione was gaping at him. 'You saw Voldemort in your _house?_'

'Will. You. Stop. Using. His _name_, if you please,' Draco hissed through clenched teeth. 'And either light the fire yourself, or kindly return my wand and _I'll _do it.'

'Fat chance.' Harry pulled out his wand and torched the fireplace, which came ablaze enthusiastically.

Draco removed the ornamental dagger from its holder on the mantle and pulled back his sleeve. By the time anyone realised what he was doing, it was too late to stop him.

'What are you doing?' Hermione exclaimed, recoiling, as the blade cut a clean line along the palm of his hand.

Draco winced slightly as he finished cutting across his hand. The blade of the dagger must have been magically charmed, because it came away from his bloody hand clean. Draco deposited the dagger into the pocket of his robes and curled his injured hand into a fist, causing the blood to pool in his palm. 'Blood willingly spilt by the Lord of the Manor is required to gain entry,' Draco explained after a moment, when a generous amount of blood was cupped in his hand. 'And to get out again, as well.'

Draco stepped up to the fire and shoved his hand into the flames, turning the palm upside down and spilling the blood. The flame _fwooshed_ and spat and turned white as it was splattered by his blood, and they watched with some fascination as the flames licking at Draco's hand did not burn him, but rather sealed the wound in his palm and cleaned the excess blood from his fingers. Draco removed his hand and stepped back.

'I go last,' he said; 'it'll seal shut behind me. So just go in and wait, and for Merlin's sake, don't _touch_ anything.'

Harry and the others glanced at one another, all wondering who should go first; unsurprisingly, it was Harry who stepped forward first, took a deep breath, and stepped into the fireplace.

The effect was immediate. As if he had stepped through a magical barrier, he was deposited on the other side in what appeared to be a very spacious room. It was hard to tell, though, as the fireplace was the only source of light in the room and he could see little beyond the immediate floor, which was comprised of bricks of a dark, rough stone. Arthur came in next, followed by Hermione, Luna and then Lupin. Draco was last, and as he promised, the fire in the hearth flickered and died, sealing itself.

And left them all in total darkness.

'Er, Malfoy,' said Hermione. Or at least what sounded like Hermione; Harry couldn't see his own hands, much less anyone else. 'Where are the lights?'

'How the fuck do you expect me to know?' _That_ sneering voice was unmistakable to Harry, even in the dark void. 'What part of "I've never been inside" didn't you digest?'

'It's very dark,' a dreamy voice to Harry's direct right piped in. 'I can't see anything. Oh, hallo, who is this?'

'Hullo, Luna. That's my stomach your elbow's in.'

'Ooh, it's you.' There was a quiet _sniff _from the direction her voice came from. 'You smell a bit like ash, you know.'

'Fucks sakes,' Draco snapped from somewhere far off ahead. 'The one person in the room with sense isn't allowed a wand. Weasley, is that you?'

''Fraid not,' said Arthur from the opposite direction.

'_Lumos._' Lupin's lined face came into view just in front of Harry over the tip of his illuminated wand. The darkness was persistent, however, and the spell acted as a yellowed, feeble flashlight in the gloom. He swivelled the wand around to his left, where it fell on Draco and the object he had bumped into.

'Holy hell—' said Harry.

'Merlin's _beard_—' said Arthur.

'You don't see that every day,' said Luna.

'Augh!' said Draco.

He jumped back, not stopping until he had put several people between himself and the full-bodied, mounted werewolf he had stumbled into. Lupin had not lowered his wand—he was just staring, transfixed, and had visibly paled. Harry couldn't blame him, for it was a terrifying sight; rearing on its hind legs, front paws outstretched, ears flat back against its skull and its jaws open wide, the only clues to its inanimate state were the many cobwebs branching between its teeth and the thick layer of dust clinging to the fur. Its eyes were wide, dilated and red-veined, with putrid-yellow irises that were slightly glazed over, narrowed from the wrinkles in the snout that were caused by the formidable snarl it was posed in.

'Oh, my,' Hermione said, breaking the silence. She illuminated her own wand tip and stepped carefully closer, crouching a bit to read the small, brass plate attached to the wooden base. '"_Haraldur Aegrus_",' she read, '"_1802-1879. Known Muggle-killer_". Charming,' she finished, standing up. 'Though I wasn't aware you could mount _werewolves_.'

'Neither was I,' Lupin said quietly.

Luna and Arthur both lit their wands and Harry quickly followed suit, shining it around him briefly, wary of more inanimate beasts hiding in the shadows. With five wands lit, a small, uneven circle of light had been cast around the floor just to the left of the hearth they'd come through. Aside from the werewolf mount, there was a large, stone pillar ahead of them that disappeared up towards the ceiling. The rest was bare—well, bare aside from the dust and cobwebs. Tiled stone floor, stone wall to the left, no windows... waving his wand around him, Harry stretched his arm out further in hopes of finding something.

'Well this is a whole lot of nothing,' Harry said, giving the immediate area another sweep with his wand.

'Would appear to be,' said Hermione.

'It's actually a whole lot of dust,' Luna pointed out helpfully.

'Oh, are you bored?' drawled Draco, his face half concealed by shadows. 'It won't last, I assure you. Any minute now, one of you will step on the right tile and then the walls will sprout spikes and begin closing in.'

'Lovely,' said Harry. He pointed into the darkness beyond. 'Then you can go first.'

The room, they discovered, was spacious and eerily empty. Unable to find any sort of torch or way of lighting the whole space (according to Hermione, there was probably a password of sorts to activate the lighting, but as Draco didn't know it they were stuck with _lumos_), they split into pairs and proceeded to slowly explore the space in sections. There were four pillars altogether, each holding up a portion of the ceiling (so high that it was not visible, hidden in shadows) and on the old stone floor between them, the Malfoy family crest had been engraved, polished and colourless.

Haraldur Aegrus the werewolf was one of very few things left in the room; up against the left wall there was a large, dusty case with many shelves, most of which were empty. There were a few small items of interest that remained, however, including a brass candlestick that thumped Arthur on his nose and a pearl necklace that attempted to strangle Hermione when she prodded it with her wand. Directly opposite, by the right wall, there was a pile of books scattered on the floor, several of which made noises (an assortment of ear-piercing shrieks, agonised moans and vicious snarls) of protest as Hermione piled them neatly aside with magic. Behind them, painted directly onto the wall, was the Malfoy family tree.

It went back three centuries further than the one in the Black House, but was far less populated—it rarely showed more than one or two offspring in any given generation, and an abnormal number of family members appeared to have died very prematurely. There were also a fair number of dark red, X-shaped marks cast over some of the names. In the last six generations three people had been marked; Harry peered closer, squinting and holding his wand up to the names, and was surprised to see one of them was the daughter of a _Draconis Malfoy_ and _Melusine Gaunt_, some ten decades prior.

'Committed suicide,' Draco said from beside him. He had his arms folded and was regarding the wall with idle interest. 'There's several other copies of the tree around the Manor,' he explained when Harry raised his eyebrows. 'I've never seen this one before. Must be the Master Tree.'

'Master Tree?'

'The original,' Draco reiterated. 'First one ever made, updates itself, as well as all the others. If someone is marked off here, it'd mark them off on all the others.'

Luna drifted over and glanced offhandedly at the tree. She moved to prod one of the red marks, but Draco caught her wrist before her finger touched it. 'If you want to keep your arm,' he drawled, 'I wouldn't do that.'

She blinked at him as he dropped her wrist, but did not attempt to touch it again. 'Why?'

'They're cursed,' he said and then paused, smirking slightly. 'By all rights, I should mark off myself for letting you lot in here.'

Harry was still looking at the red X staining the name of _Tisiphone_. 'She committed suicide?' he asked, and Draco nodded. 'Why did she get cursed for _that?_'

Draco shrugged. 'Something about her mother trying to marry her off to an ugly old brute when her father died. I guess they didn't believe her when she said "I'd rather kill myself".' Harry moved his wand further down the tree, pausing at _Donovan_ (also marked), where Draco supplied, 'Supported the motion to deny the Muggle-hunting bill proposed at the Ministry.'

Harry's wand followed the next generation down to where Draco's name was visible, to the last mark on _Cassandra_. 'I didn't know Lucius had a sister,' Harry said, surprised.

'Hm? Oh, yes.' Draco shrugged again. 'No idea why she's been marked off, myself. Father never talked about her, and I wasn't fool enough to ask.'

Hermione stepped forward to stand beside Harry, holding her own wand up to the names. 'Seems she died awfully young.'

'Or was "dealt with"," Harry muttered.

Hermione was still studying the earlier branches. 'Natalia Prewett was your grandmother!' she said to Draco.

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'So?'

'_So_, she was Molly's aunt...' Hermione murmured, mostly to herself, 'and that would have made Molly and Lucius cousins,' she continued. 'And that means you and all of the Weasley children are... first cousins—once removed, or something, doesn't it?'

'Second cousins,' Draco supplied with a sneer. 'Thanks for reminding me. Are we quite finished here?'

'What does "_purus fidens"_ mean?' Harry asked over him.

'_"Without stain, without fear"_,' Draco said with a flourish. 'Rather fitting, don't you think?'

'All except the "without fear" part,' Harry replied. Draco narrowed his eyes, but Harry ignored him and pointed his wand towards the back of the room. 'But yes, let's move on.'

They continued to move through the room, slowly, Arthur and Harry flanking Draco, wands out and scanning for any unwelcome curses or jinxes laid as traps, but the room was as empty of material items and magical wards both. Like the first two, the back corners of the room didn't have too much to boast; one had a pair of shackles chained to the wall, and the stone beside them bore marks that suggested the shackles had seen a fair amount of use—for what, Harry was sure he did not want to know. The other corner hosted what looked like a massive, rectangular cage with solid iron walls; they couldn't see inside, and there was no visible way of opening it. A small slide-slot in the door was rusted closed, and Arthur tapped it curiously with his wand.

The rust made a crackling noise, and slowly began to vanish. There was another noise, too... softer, different, coming from inside the pen... a sort of sliding, rustling... Harry tilted his head at the cage, trying to discern the noise; it almost sounded like a whisper... he leaned closer, then held his breath as the voice became clear.

'_Thirty years... thirty years you've kept me... keep me in a box, will you? Not anymore, no more... I've had three decades to brood...'_

The rust was gone, and Arthur had reached for the slot to open it.

'Wait!' Harry shouted, and slammed the slot shut just as Arthur began to open it.

Arthur pulled his hand away, looking startled. 'What is it, Harry?'

Draco had his ear up against the door. 'Something's moving inside—'

Harry held up a finger to his lips and Draco immediately fell silent. Harry put his ear against the door beside him. He could indeed hear it—the scratching of rough scales sliding against the inside of the cage, the low, hissing breath...

'_Come on, then,' _it breathed, _'open the door... thirty years of starving... I can already taste your flesh, Master...' _

Harry's blood chilled. 'Can you?' Harry asked the door, curiously. 'And who might you be?'

Remus, Arthur and the others were all staring at him with wide eyes, for they had not heard a word he had just said—only the ceaseless hissing of Parseltongue. Draco paled and quickly backed away from the door.

The rustling inside paused, and then Harry heard a faint hiss directly on the other side of the iron from his ear. '_Not Master? Well... why don't you open the door and see, young one... I can hear your blood pumping... gushing... rushing through your veins...' _

He pulled his ear away from the cage and glanced at Hermione, who was just beside him. 'Harry, you were—'

'I know,' he said. He looked at Draco, who was watching him with narrow eyes, though he looked more confused than angry. 'I suppose your father never mentioned keeping a Basilisk in the basement, did he?'

Everyone that had been looking at Harry turned as one to look at Draco instead, who took a step back. 'What the hell are you on about, Potter?'

'I've heard that voice before,' Harry snarled, taking three steps until he was standing right in front of Draco, who backed up again. 'Second year, in the walls when the Chamber of Secrets was opened. When I thought I was going _mental—_' Harry stopped himself, inhaling sharply, and turned his back on Draco to face the cage again. 'Thirty years—it says it's been in there for thirty years... starving... '

'Thirty years?' Arthur asked. 'Blimey...'

'Could it even live that long without food?' Hermione asked.

'The one in the Chamber was there for fifty years,' Harry said.

'They can hibernate,' Arthur said, stepping away from the cage. 'Most magical creatures can.'

'Especially the powerful ones,' Lupin added. 'Dragons, unicorns, Basilisks—'

'And werewolves?' Draco asked from behind Harry.

Remus paused, then nodded. 'Yes, and werewolves,' he said quietly.

'How did he get a Basilisk in here?' Luna asked, her voice erroneously loud and cheerful. 'Fireplace is a bit small for a great ruddy snake.'

'Not to mention the side-effect that it would kill anyone it looked at,' Harry remarked dryly.

'I suppose he could have bred it here,' Arthur said. 'It's not hard to do. And it would make sense to do so—to remove any chance he had at getting caught. Not just a fine for breeding Basilisks, you know—he'd have faced time in Azkaban for this.'

'Couldn't have had that,' Harry agreed. 'And I suppose he did it on Voldemort's orders—' everyone except Hermione and Remus winced; '—he seems to favour them.'

'Well, what are we supposed to do about it?' Hermione asked. 'We can't just _leave_ it in there.'

Draco stepped forward again, goggling at her. 'Oh, we _can't_, is that right? What do you propose? We let it out for a walk?'

Hermione opened her mouth to retaliate, but Remus intercepted before she could. 'No, Hermione, Draco's right—we'd be dead before we got a spell off if you opened that door.'

'So we're just going to _leave_ it here?' she asked indignantly. 'It's been in there for thirty years—it hasn't even eaten! I know it's a _Basilisk_, but it's still a _living thing. _You can't just abandon it!'

'Who said anything about abandoning it?' Harry asked, glaring at the slot in the cage door.

'You couldn't possibly, Harry!' she said, wheeling on him. 'It hasn't done anything wrong—it's helpless in there!'

'I'm sorry, Granger,' Draco snapped. 'I must have missed the part where giant serpents with _poisonous fangs _who _can kill you with a glance_ were _helpless_. Let's just set it loose in the countryside so it can frolic with unicorns and small children can feed it lollies, shall we?'

'Shut up, Malfoy,' Harry said. Hermione gave him a grateful smile, but it disappeared as he continued with, 'And give it a rest, Hermione. He's right, and you know it.'

Hermione gaped at him. 'Oh, so you're just going to kill it, then, are you? And how do you propose to do that? You heard Remus, you'd be dead the moment you opened the—'

Harry pushed past her, opened the slot in the cage door while looking fixedly at the floor, shoved his wand through the slot and shouted, '_Avada Kedavra!' _

A bright green light flashed from inside the slot, briefly illuminating Harry's profile. Then there was a loud _thud_ as something large inside the cage slumped to the floor. Harry removed his wand and looked up at her. '_That's_ what I propose to do.'

'Bloody hell, Potter,' Draco said quietly, breaking the stunned silence. 'It's that easy for you, is it?'

Harry stared at him. Draco looked as, if not more, mortified than Hermione at his sudden aggressiveness, and it made Harry feel his actions may have been a bit impulsive and deplorable. 'I've had enough to do with Basilisks to last me a lifetime, and _helpless_ is the last bloody word I would ever use to describe one,' he said curtly. 'Is this all, then? A few mouldy books and a Basilisk?'

'Looks like the place was cleared out in a hurry, actually,' Arthur said. 'Well, a hurry some years ago—look at the marks in the floor, and the empty cases...'

'There's a torch over here,' Remus said. He was standing by the back wall, wand held aloft by a very ancient-looking lamp fixed to the wall. He tapped it with his wand and it sputtered, crackled and finally set ablaze. Another torch, about a metre across from it, immediately followed suit. From beside the cage, Harry could see there was something on the wall between them—a large frame, it appeared, made of silver and easily as tall as Remus, who had turned to look at it curiously.

'Oh, that's better,' said Hermione from somewhere behind Harry. 'I can see the lock on the door, now.'

'Safe to open it up, you reckon?' Arthur asked, conjuring a small mirror on the tip of his wand and using it to peer warily in the slot.

Harry didn't hear her answer; he was still watching Remus, who was staring at the frame on the wall with an expression that Harry could only describe as horror-struck.

'Lupin?' he ventured. Remus was still staring at the frame. He was also wavering, looking like he was trying to back away but at the same time was unable to move. Harry moved forward, coming up beside him and snapping his fingers in front of Remus' eyes. 'Oi, you there?' he said, but Remus didn't move. 'What are you—' Harry turned his head to see what held Remus' attention and immediately stopped talking. He caught a glimpse of a silver frame that was taller than he was, framing a large mirror that reached the floor, before the reflection swam before his eyes and changed.

There was a flash of diamond scales and a menacing hiss, and then red eyes with slit pupils fixed on his own—

Pain like Harry had never felt before exploded in the scar on his forehead. His eyes snapped shut from the pain and he stumbled backwards until his back collided with the pillar behind him. The pain was so intense, he couldn't feel his fingernails clawing at his skin; his scar felt like it was being carved right into his very skull, searing white-hot and deep. He slid down the rough stone, clutching his head and cursing—but he wasn't aware of it, because he couldn't tell up from down, and nor could he hear the sound of his own voice, and the pain wasn't wearing off—not until someone shouted '_Exstinguim_!' and the torches flanking the mirror went out, and the world as it was returned to Harry in an unsteady rush.

Hermione was kneeling between them, her wand tip the only light in the newly returned darkness. She was feeling Remus' forehead, for he had similarly sunk to the floor just beside Harry. Arthur was squatting beside Remus, and Draco was hovering on the other side of Harry next to Luna, who was peering at them curiously.

'Guess it always _is_ that dramatic,' Draco drawled.

'Remus, are you all right?' Worry brimming her brown eyes, expression and voice carefully concerned, Hermione smoothed the hair sticking to his forehead aside. 'What—'

'_Don't_,' Remus hissed, gently pushing her hand away. His voice was deep and slightly cracked. 'Please don't ask, Hermione.'

Furrowing her brow, Hermione looked over at Harry. 'Are you okay, Harry?'

Harry was breathing too hard to answer at first. He was staring blankly, unblinking, at the dark space that disguised the mirror, and clutching his forehead with his right hand. He was dimly aware of Remus beside him, staring likewise, and a part of Harry's mind made a careful note that something was very wrong here—very, _very_ wrong if it had affected Remus this badly, because say what you wanted about his being kind, but Remus, gauntness and shabby robes and all, was one of the strongest people Harry knew.

'I don't know,' Harry said shakily, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. 'What the hell was that?'

'I have no idea,' Remus said, his voice strained. 'I couldn't even see it until I lit the torch.'

'Probably a Concealment Charm,' Hermione said wisely, standing back up. She held her wand up by the torch, illuminating the silver frame. Slowly, she moved the wand to her left, where the mirror should have been, but instead found more stone.

'I—what?' Harry said, breathless and slightly confused.

'A Concealment Charm,' Hermione repeated. 'You know, like—a switch. You hit the switch and something opens—or turns on—the torches, I mean—'

'I know what a Concealment Charm is,' Harry snapped, struggling to stand up. He had to use the pillar to support himself, because his knees were not quite ready to bear his weight. 'What good is that in telling us what it _is_? I mean, it's obviously a mirror of some sort, but...'

Everyone was watching him, waiting for him to finish, but Harry didn't notice. He was thinking about the last time he'd seen a mirror that was more than it appeared. But that hadn't been like this; it was ridiculous to even think it. But still...

'But... what, Harry?' Arthur asked.

Harry pushed off the pillar, lit the top of his wand and shone it at the upper part of the silver frame. And there it was, what he was looking for, inscribed right across the top:

_Riapsed tsep eedr uoy tub ecafr uoy ton wohsi__._

'Harry?' Hermione prompted carefully.

'The Mirror of Erised,' Harry said. 'I can't believe it—Hermione, this is it!'

'This is the Mirror of Erised?'

'No—no, it's something else. I mean, it's just _like_ the Mirror—only this one is—' he squinted at the inscription again, '—the Mirror of _Riapsed_. Not the mirror of desire but the mirror of...'

'Despair,' Draco supplied. He had come to stand beside Harry and was studying the writing, too. 'It's all spelled backwards.'

'Just like the Mirror of Erised,' Hermione echoed, comprehension dawning in her eyes. She held her wand by the inscription and read it over three times very quickly. '"_I show not your face but your deepest despair_."'

She looked at Harry, who had frowned slightly. 'Malfoy,' Harry said, looking over at Draco. 'I don't suppose you have any idea where Lucius got this?'

'Death Eater flea market,' Draco replied. 'Third Saturday of the month, just south of Devonshire. Selling of souls and Muggle repellent and the defiling of all sorts of morals. You should check it out, sometime, really spiffing.'

'I'll take that as a "no",' Harry said tiredly.

'Well,' she said, removing her wand from the frame, 'how typical of Lucius, to come to own something so sadistically quaint.'

'And how very typical of you to say so,' Draco replied shortly. 'Now, unless there's anything else you'd like to torture yourselves with, we should probably head back before that deranged psychopath thinks something's amiss and burns down my home looking for you.'

: : :

Upon re-entering the library, they discovered that Nivens had already delivered all of the requested documents. Terry was sitting at the desk in the back, up to his eyes in rolls of parchment, ranging from blueprints of the Manor to specifics on spell wards and an enormous, hand-bound book containing the entire financial history of the Malfoy fortune for the past one hundred and fifty years. Moody was scanning it with his magical eye, likely searching for names of any suspicious parties involved in transactions.

Narcissa had returned, as well, and was reclining on the green chaise just beside the hearth as they piled out, Draco coming last and replacing the dagger on its stand. She put aside the book she was reading, stood up and approached Remus.

'I wonder if I might have a word, Remus,' she said sweetly. Remus nodded, and Narcissa glanced at the others, then at the door. 'Alone, if that's all right.'

Remus looked from Arthur to Harry, who shrugged. 'Yes, that's fine.'

Hermione watched them go with a little apprehension. Luna drifted over to the desk and leaned over Terry's shoulder, peering down at a very large map of the grounds, while Arthur joined Moody in pouring through the financial records. Terry appeared to be struggling to hold all four corners of the map down with a combination of his elbows and several books for paperweights.

'This is insane,' Terry muttered, tapping the parchment with his wand. The map hissed menacingly at him in return. 'I can't make sense of any of this—it's spelling everything in _Latin_ and it's refusing to cooperate—' Terry cursed as the parchment rolled itself up with a _snap_ and left a nasty paper cut on his thumb. He looked up at Draco, who was still by the fireplace, looking smug. 'Instead of standing there and smirking like a prat, care to teach your house some manners?'

'Not really,' Draco said, snickering slightly. 'You seem to be doing a fine job of it yourself.'

Hermione rolled her eyes. 'As unsurprising as it is that your house is as foul and arrogant as you are, Malfoy, according to our agreement you have to make it cooperate whether you care to or not.'

Luna tapped the quivering roll of parchment that had bitten Terry with her wand. 'That wasn't very nice,' she said. The map hissed at her. 'Now, that's not necessary,' she chided. 'Open up—' (the map snarled), '—go on, then—' (the map began to roll away in a vain attempt to escape), '—please?' she offered.

The map stopped, seemed to consider, and then unrolled gracefully without so much as a hiss. It lay flat on the desk as if it were nothing other than an ordinary, serene piece of paper that had no intention of snapping at anyone.

Everyone goggled at her and she smiled at Terry. 'See? All you had to do was ask nicely.'

'Er,' said Terry, eyeing the parchment warily. 'Thank you?' The parchment sighed happily and Terry raised his eyebrows. 'Right... well, it's still spelling everything in Latin.'

'That would be because it was written in Latin,' Draco said, coming over to the desk. 'How can you be a Curse Breaker and not know Latin?'

'They don't teach interns Latin until our third year,' Terry said, a bit bitterly. 'I don't suppose _you_ can translate it?'

'As a matter of fact I can,' Draco corrected him. 'But you're going to have to ask _nicely_,' he added, smirking.

'Right,' said Harry, before Terry could retaliate. 'Do you mind if we look around while you lot take care of that?'

'Help yourself,' Draco said without looking up. 'Nivens!' _Crack_, and the house-elf appeared by his side. 'Take Mr. Potter and his paramour on a tour of our humble abode, would you? And take care that the house doesn't attempt to lock them in a cupboard or have something devour them, for that would be _most_ unfortunate.'

'You're an excellent host, Malfoy,' Hermione said dryly.

'Why thank you, milady,' Draco replied, glancing up without moving his head. 'Now kindly bugger off, will you?'

The Manor was far too big to explore every room individually in one afternoon, so Hermione asked the house-elf (who was extremely erudite, as far as house-elves went) to show her and Harry to the rooms that received the most use. These ended up being the drawing room on the first floor ('Master does his workings in here,' according to Nivens), the ballroom in the west wing—a large, open space with a marble floor and several grand pianos ('Mistress practices here every day.')—and the dining room, which featured a long oak table and several stained-glass windows, along with a large portrait over the mantle of _Amadeus Malfoy, _Draco's great-grandfather, who looked exactly like his descendants in every respect. He sneered as they passed underneath him back into the entry hall, where Nivens led them upstairs to view the main bedrooms.

As Nivens opened the door, all that Hermione could think was that it was certainly the last thing she would have expected. Aside from the fact that it was the size of an expensive hotel suite, Draco's bedroom was... well, oddly _normal_.

The most prominent aspect of the room was the amount of literature covering every available surface. Books were littered all over the place, lying on top of each other, stacked high in precarious piles on the desk, sticking out from under the bed, half-hidden beneath pillows and strewn across the rug by the hearth. The wall opposite the window was a built-in bookcase, and seemed to be overflowing; from a glance, Hermione couldn't see too much of a pattern of subjects. There were books on everything from Quidditch to potion-making, books on history and dressage techniques, and there was even a large hardback entitled _Draconian Measures _that had been left on the chaise by the fireplace—which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a very interesting-looking text on dragon breeds.

She glanced at the bookcase to her right, and blinked in some surprise at a hardback copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ that stared back at her. Wondering what Malfoy was playing at by having Muggle literature in his room, she tilted the book out of its spot and was surprised to see the cover had a moving picture on the front; it was, in fact, a wizarding book, but it was still by a Muggle author_—_shrugging to herself, she put the book back and continued to scan the room.

The walls were a pale, creamy colour like the rest of the manor, but whether it was stone or wood or plaster Hermione could not deduct, as most of the free space was obscured by either posters or paintings. The way the images had been displayed had no real sequence, as if they had been erected without much forethought, and gave the impression that the room had been in use for quite some time. The majority of them clashed horribly; the worst had to be a moving print of Waterhouse's _The Lady of Shalott_ (another Muggle piece translated into a wizarding product) looking completely alien beside a large, much more active poster featuring the _Tutshill Tornadoes. _

The furnishings in the room looked expensive, but classy; this is, they managed to scream _'We cost a fortune!'_ without the side effect of being tacky. The bed was easily the largest piece of furniture in the room. It had four deeply carved, wooden posts holding up black drapes, and was the only surface area that seemed to have been given any consideration, as the deep red duvet had been tucked neatly over the pillows. Come to think of it, that was probably a house-elf's doing. By the looks of the rest of the room, Draco didn't seem the type to make his own bed.

Harry suddenly made a noise that sounded something like a laugh he thought better of and tried to swallow. Intrigued, Hermione approached him; he was standing before a large dresser, covered in scribbled-on parchment and several books with blank covers. Sat on top of these in no organised fashion were several picture frames, many with occupants she recognised. The largest was a picture of what looked like every Slytherin in Draco's year. Due to the small 'I' badges pinned to their robes, Hermione recognised it as being taken during their fifth year.

As usual, Draco was holding court in the centre of the photo, draped loftily on a large sofa and smirking, with Crabbe and Goyle poised behind the couch above him. Pansy Parkinson sat to his left, petting him affectionately on the shoulder and blowing kisses at the camera, Millicent Bulstrode behind, mimicking her. On Draco's right was the tall, dark-skinned boy she remembered as Blaise Zabini; he looked very sotto in the photograph, one leg propped up on an ottoman and leaning carelessly into Draco's shoulder. Off to the side stood the thin, weedy boy Theodore Nott; beside him with her arms around his neck, looking like some blonde-with-blue-eyes out of a swimsuit advertisement, stood another one of Pansy's old cohorts, Daphne Greengrass.

The other photographs were similar, and most of them were taken at Hogwarts. There was one or two that weren't; a very nice portrait picture of his mother, looking several years younger than she was now, and a picture of an older man Hermione did not recognise, but guessed to be his grandfather—he had the same cold, grey eyes and pointed features that seemed to be the Malfoy calling card.

Harry nudged her, indicating the photographs that had originally made him snigger with a slight nod. Hermione immediately clapped a hand over her mouth to suppress involuntary giggles. The first was certainly the more obscene of the two; it had the same setting as the fifth year picture—the couch in the Slytherin common room—but the occupants looked older, probably sixth-years.

This time, Blaise (wearing what appeared to be a faux golden crown) had Pansy (quite literally kicking and screaming) hoisted over his shoulder, animatedly pointing at her arse with his free hand. Goyle was sitting on top of what looked to be an unconscious Crabbe, holding a guitar in one hand and a quill in the other, scribbling vulgar things on his friend's drooling face. On the couch sat the remaining three; Theodore was physically recoiling from Draco, who had leaned over Daphne's lap (she was sitting between them doing obscene things to a lollipop with her tongue) to stick his tongue in Theodore's ear.

The second photo showed only three people, so the camera was focused much closer to their faces. There was Zabini again, this time looking extremely handsome, reclining on a black sofa, lips holding what looked suspiciously like a joint. Stretched across his waist and wearing a loose nightdress that dropped carelessly off one shoulder was Pansy; Hermione had called her a cow on many occasions, and although there was very little in the world that could alter that opinion, the photograph was waging a good argument. Pansy had never been a particularly pretty girl, but the slight tilt of her head, together with heavy-lidded eyes and her dark hair spilling over Blaise's white shirt gave her a more wanton, sultry look than Hermione would have thought possible.

And finally, there was Malfoy. Laid across the both of them with his head resting on his folded arms, loose tendrils of hair spilling into his eyes, Draco was giving the camera a lecherous _come-hither_ look that was nothing short of scandalous.

'They look like they had a good time.'

Hermione looked up at Harry; she'd been so engrossed in studying the pictures, she hadn't noticed that he had started watching her reactions to them. 'Yes, they do,' she agreed. 'Yes—Slytherins having fun, who knew?'

'Guess it's not as surprising as Malfoy being such a slob,' Harry admitted, looking around the room again.

To be fair to Draco, Hermione thought, it wasn't really dirty. There weren't any old clothes or food lying about that she could see, mostly just books and spare bits of parchment. In fact, it felt very much like a sort of comfortable, organised chaos—of course, it was a bit of a shock nonetheless, considering Hermione had half-expected Malfoy to be a bit of a closet OCD case, right down to folding his socks.

On that note, she decided to indulge, and nudged open the nearby wardrobe.

It seemed she had been right with one of her assumptions, at least. Malfoy's wardrobe may as well have been a completely different universe from the rest of his room. Harry wandered to her side and peeked in over her shoulder. 'Good lord,' he said.

Like so many things in the wizarding world, the inside of the wardrobe had been magically enlarged, so it was basically the size of a walk-in closet. From the entrance, she could see several walls full of clothing, all hanging neatly on hooks and hangers in an organised fashion. It was dramatically different from the atmosphere in the rest of the room.

'If you're looking for dark devices and forbidden magic,' said a lofty voice behind them, 'you're not going to find them in there.'

Hermione jumped and slammed the wardrobe closed. Both she and Harry turned around to see Draco standing in the open doorway, relaxing against the frame.

If someone—Malfoy, of all people—had been rooting through her personal effects, Hermione would have been rightfully furious. She would have expected the same of him, but not for the first time that day, Draco surprised her by instead looking utterly bemused. The sour look and impatient tone of voice were gone; he looked less pale, too, and much healthier than he had since the ride in the limo that morning.

He pushed off the doorframe, closing the door behind him, revealing a poster Hermione hadn't noticed before. It looked, if possible, even more out of place amongst the artwork and Quidditch posters. It was a full-body shot of a well-known celebrity witch—a curvy, pretty woman in a very alluring dress who kept winking suggestively at them.

She blinked at it for several long moments, then blurted, 'Why do you have a poster of Amelia Rose on your wall?'

'The same reason any bloke would have one, I'd imagine,' Draco answered, raising an eyebrow as if surprised she had to ask. It was shameless, really, the way he could smirk like that and end up making the other party feel embarrassed. Hermione bristled at the fact that she was blushing, which only served to deepen the shade of red her cheeks had adopted.

Harry looked like he was restraining a grin with a lot of difficulty. 'Certainly less shocking than having your bedsheets look like something stolen out of Gryffindor Tower.'

'Contrary to popular belief, Gryffindors do not own any patents on the colour red,' Draco drawled. He moved to the bed and did an elegant flop back onto it, upsetting the neatly tucked duvet. 'And you _wish_ your school bunks were this comfortable. I hated sleeping at Hogwarts.'

'I can imagine,' Harry muttered darkly, glancing around.

'Certainly a step up from a cupboard, isn't it?' Draco said from the bed, peering at them upside-down. Hermione closed her eyes, silently praying nothing would explode; she could already feel Harry's temper boiling from across the room.

'Yeah, it is,' Harry snapped. 'Not all of us grew up living in a five-star hotel, Malfoy.'

Opening her eyes, Hermione saw that Draco had picked up on the temper, too; the look of slight amusement from before hardened into a closed, unreadable expression. Draco shrugged indifferently. 'Not all of us grew up with our names already in history books, either—but if we had it'd hardly make us something special, would it?'

Harry opened his mouth to retaliate just as someone knocked on the half-closed door.

'Are you lot—' Lupin's head appeared around the slightly open door. 'Ah, there you are, Harry. Mind if I borrow you for a moment?'

'Sure,' Harry said, sounding grateful for an excuse to get away from Draco.

He quickly followed Lupin out the door. Hermione watched him go, the familiar helpless feeling that always accompanied Harry's temper swelling inside her.

: : :

Remus closed the door to Draco's room carefully behind him, and then turned around to face Harry. 'How are you three getting along?' Harry glared at him, and Remus frowned slightly. 'That well?'

Harry frowned himself and sighed. 'Everything all right? What did his mum want?'

'Yes,' Remus said quickly. 'Well, sort of. Harry, I know this sounds odd, but did you happen to notice if Draco ate anything this morning?'

Harry blinked. 'Sorry, what?'

'Or last night?'

Harry blinked again, pulling his head back slightly. 'I—why d'you—'

'Did he even _sleep_ last night?'

Now Harry's brow furrowed, and he looked at Remus for a moment before answering. 'No. I mean, I don't think so. And I don't know if he's eaten, but I haven't seen him eat since yesterday morning. Why?'

Remus looked aside, shifting his weight, thinking. Deliberating. Harry was, at best, a strong and steady figure under enormous and often perilous pressure—at worst, he could quickly revert back to the fifteen-year-old version of himself; impulsive, emotional, stubborn, and extremely (though often rightfully) furious. But Harry was more dangerous than he'd like to believe when he was angry, and even after four years of separation to sober some of the animosity, Draco Malfoy was still very talented at making Harry angry over very little.

Having decided on his course of action—being straightforward—Remus shoved his hands in his pockets. 'Listen, Harry—I think it'd be a good idea if we spent the weekend at the Manor.'

Not surprisingly, Harry blanched. 'What? Stay at the Manor?' he asked, aghast. 'You mean _sleep _here?'

'Yes, that's what I mean,' Remus said firmly, but gently. 'Arthur's already agreed and I have nothing to keep me, so we can both stay with you and Draco, and I think it would be for the best. For Draco, in particular.'

'For the best? In the home of an enemy?' Harry rolled his eyes. 'Have you forgotten who he _is?_'

'Do you really believe that?' Remus asked. 'That he's still the enemy? Is that why you agreed to help him?

'Who he is,' Remus continued, 'is a man that grew up with a Death Eater as a father, and is now old enough to make his own decisions. I wouldn't be asking you to do this unless I thought there was very good reason for it, Harry, you _know_ that. And you have to admit that the last thing anyone has been concerned about since Draco turned himself in is his well-being—and I'm not saying _you_ should be, but if he's going to be of any use to any of us, _someone_ needs to be concerned about it.'

Harry paused. Remus had been counting on this pause, where Harry would quickly consider his own view, what Remus was saying, and the logic spread throughout, before deciding whether he was willing to consider the proposal. However temperamental he was prone to be, Harry very rarely disregarded logic. Remus did not mistake 'logic' with 'common sense', however, as there was a very large difference between the two, and Harry frequently ignored what the average person would consider common sense; but then, Harry was far from average, another detail never overlooked by his old professor.

'Okay,' Harry conceded. 'I mean, I don't think it's a good idea, but if you and Arthur don't mind—'

'We don't,' Remus assured him.

'Okay,' Harry said again, looking uneasy but relinquishing. 'I'll go explain to Hermione, then. Could you let the others—'

'Of course,' Remus replied automatically. 'Will you three be all right?'

'Yeah,' Harry said. He looked as if he were thinking deeply about something, but then dismissed it with a quick shake of his head. 'Yeah, we'll be fine.'

: : :

'Is he always like that?'

Hermione wheeled around as if she'd been jabbed rudely in the back; she'd completely forgotten her surroundings, which had been a very bad thing to do, because it had left her alone in a room with Draco Malfoy.

'Must _you_ always be like _that_?' she snapped, huffing and folding her arms.

Draco was still draped on his stomach on his bed, creating a large depression in the comforter. 'Like _what_, Granger?' He had his chin propped up on both hands and his head tilted to the side. 'Honest? Forthright?'

'Tactless! Hostile!' she snapped, tightening the knot her arms had formed. 'Why do you always try to make him upset?'

'Why do _you_ always try to pander to him?' Draco shot back.

'_Pander_ to him? What do you—I don't—'

'Yes, Granger, you do.' Draco had rolled off the bed onto his feet and approached her, stopping with several feet between them. 'And don't you deny it. You do it, Weasley does it, you _all_ do it.'

Hermione spluttered a little, feeling indignant all of a sudden. 'Even if I did—but I _don't_—even still, he's been through a lot!'

'A lot,' Draco repeated. 'And what is your basis of comparison for that? He's been through a lot compared to _you_? To Weasley?' Draco gave a short laugh and shook his head at her inability to instantly form a response this question, continuing on. 'What about your werewolf friend? You think he hasn't been through a lot?' he snapped. 'What about Snape? I don't care what your preconceptions about him are; he's probably been through more than all of you combined. I am sick and tired of you all acting like Potter's the only person who's ever suffered for this bloody war.'

'It's not the same!' Hermione protested. 'He was only a _child—_'

'So was I!'

Draco had shouted the last remark, catching Hermione by surprise, and she just gaped at him for a moment before she managed to digest the words. Draco had turned away, facing the windows with his arms folded. A long silence lingered uncomfortably between them while Hermione searched furiously for the appropriate thing to say.

'I know,' she said to his back. 'I'm sorry. Look, I know, we all were—I didn't mean—'

'I know,' Draco said, cutting her off without turning around.

She didn't mind the interruption, was actually somewhat grateful for it. 'Right. Well. Nice, er, room. I guess.'

Draco, still facing the window, shrugged, though his arms had relaxed slightly. They both lapsed into another uncomfortable silence, and Hermione was wondering if she would be pushing her luck to ask what she really wanted to, all the while trying to imagine the irony Draco faced in having a Muggleborn—one he had spent six years of his life insulting—standing in his bedroom.

They both started talking at the same time.

'Look, I know this is a bit overdue—'

'That scar on your chest, did you—'

'What?'

'What?'

Draco had finally turned around, and now it only served him so he could stare at her, hoping she would repeat herself, while she stared stubbornly at him, wishing he'd finish whatever he had been about to say.

'What?' he said again before she could.

_Dammit_. 'Erm,' she said. 'Your scar. Last night, when you were in your Animagus form, I—'

'Since when,' Draco interrupted, 'did my physical condition become any of your bloody business?'

Okay, touchy subject. She probably should have anticipated that. Still, she decided, since she'd already opened the can, she may as well dig out allthe worms while her hands were dirty. 'Harry gave it to you.' It wasn't a question.

'And what,' Draco said evenly, 'does that have to do with anything?'

'He doesn't know, you know.'

'He's a misanthropic, oblivious idiot,' Draco snapped. 'Of course he doesn't know,'

Hermione ignored the jibe. To be fair, it had a little truth to it. 'He'd still want to know.'

'Well, sorry if I don't pander to your Prodigy's every want and desire.'

'Draco—'

'_Malfoy_, Granger.'

'Malfoy,' she conceded, mostly to shut him up and stay on topic. 'He thought Snape was able to heal it—'

'He _did_.'

'But—the mark—Harry told us Snape said there wouldn't be any—'

'Since when do you believe a damn thing Snape tells you?'

'Oh, stop talking bollocks!' she snapped, flustered. 'You know what I mean!'

'Of course I know what you mean!' Draco was shouting again, but now in a desperate sort of defensiveness rather than raging indignation. 'Have you—'

'No,' she said firmly. 'I haven't—'

'Good. Keep it that—'

'—yet,' she finished. 'But if you don't, I will.'

'What?'

'You heard me.'

Draco was staring very hard at her. She had to appreciate how difficult it was to withstand his gaze when he looked at her that way, grey eyes wild and turbulent, like twin cyclones tearing at her resolve. It was the same piercing look that his father had directed at her and her parents at that first meeting so many years ago in Diagon Alley, and it jarred her slightly, though she was careful not to show it.

'It's none of his bloody business,' he said.

'It _is_, though,' she pressed, still valiantly resisting the hard look. 'He would _want_ to know, Draco.'

'Malfoy, Granger!'

'Fine, _Malfoy_. That doesn't change the fact that he—'

'Potter doesn't need to know anything!'

'You knowyou should tell him, Draco!'

'Should tell me what?' Then, almost as an afterthought, '_Draco, _Hemione?_'_

Hermione wheeled around. Harry was standing in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, having walked back into the room with the sort of timing that only Murphy and his cohort Irony could arrange. Beside her, Draco closed his eyes and took a very slow, steady breath. Hermione bit her lip.

'What I should tell you,' Draco spat, 'is when to mind your own _fucking_ business.' Shoving roughly past Harry on the way, he stormed out of the room.

'Right,' Harry said slowly, looking from the door Draco had slammed to Hermione, who was still chewing her lip. 'So, do you want to tell me what that was that all about?'

: : :


	6. Chapter Five: Birds, Bees, and Unicorns

Chapter 5  
**Birds, Bees, & Unicorns**

_Trusting parents can be hazardous to your health._  
—Calvin & Hobbes

: : : : :

At the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts, almost month after Draco had turned fifteen, the world as he knew it came to an abrupt end. This disaster began with the most absurd conversation he could ever remember having with his father.

Oh, God, he thought miserably. It was one of _those_ talks.

Lucius was sitting in the drawing room, elegantly sprawled on an embroidered green chaise. He indicated the ottoman at the end of the chaise with a brief nod, expressing that Draco should take it.

Draco sat down with a slight twinge of apprehension. 'Er,' he said, and then mentally cursed himself. His father gave him a well-deserved glare, which said quite clearly, Malfoys Do Not Stutter. Swallowing, Draco tried again. 'This—' What, exactly? Chat? Pep-talk? Inappropriate and disturbingly awkward discussion about birds and bees? '—isn't really necessary,' he finished lamely.

'Unfortunately for you, I am still the one who has the privilege of deciding what is and is not necessary,' Lucius responded coolly. 'Unless, of course, you'd rather speak with your mother on the matter.'

Draco prickled at that suggestion and shoved the concept forcibly from his mind. 'Er,' he said again, earning another glare, and tried to cover it up with an inconspicuous clearing-of-the-throat. 'No, I'd rather not.'

'Good, because she spent the afternoon pleading with me to handle it,' Lucius said, looking slightly irate—apparently, the memory was somewhat less than pleasant. In any other circumstance, Draco would have been smug at this; all other characteristics considered, his father was surprisingly uxorious. Whether it be jewellery or new drapes or a new horse, what Mother wanted, Mother got—that was just the way things worked in the Malfoy house. In _this_ circumstance, however, all Draco could do was strongly resist the urge to fidget. Lucius was reclining nonchalantly against the chaise, tactlessly insouciant in the face of his son's very obvious unease. He paused long enough to finish off the drink he was holding before placing it on the stand beside the chaise, and then turned his attention back to his son.

'It has come to my attention that you have reached an age in which certain… ah… _issues_ may arise that could present rather, shall we say, inconvenient complications for your future as a Malfoy.'

_What, you mean I've reached puberty,_ Draco thought irritably, but kept his careful expressionless expression in place. Even though he had a vague idea of what was prompting the conversation, he couldn't put his finger on where it was leading. If ever Draco wished his father would just sod it all with the formalities and be straightforward, even if only to get the pain of the ordeal over with, it would be now. Lucius, however, seemed to have perfected the art of not only beating around the bush, but playing hide-and-seek around the hedges, poking the seekers in the eyes when they weren't paying enough attention.

'What _sort_ of complications, Father?' he asked tiredly.

Sitting up, Lucius said, 'Give me your hand.'

He produced a tiny vial that appeared to be filled halfway with some sort of clear liquid. Draco scooted forward slightly on the ottoman, holding his left hand out, palm up, with mild trepidation. It was only out of sheer trust in the fact that his father had never done anything to intentionally harm him that held Draco's hand steady in anticipation of an unknown substance.

Lucius tipped the vial, dropping most of the liquid into his cupped palm, and waited several long moments, not taking his eyes off Draco's hand. Draco watched with interest, expecting some sort of reaction, but the liquid sat idly in his palm, growing lukewarm.

Satisfied, Lucius held the vial under Draco's hand, indicating that he should return the substance. Draco did so carefully; years of excelling in Potions paid off, as he returned the liquid without losing a single drop.

'What was that?' Draco asked, as Lucius capped the vial and pocketed it.

'Unicorn tears,' Lucius replied, looking up at him with an expression that conveyed both pleasure and mild surprise. 'I needed to be sure.'

'I've nothing to hide from you, Father,' Draco said truthfully.

'That much I can see,' Lucius agreed. 'The test is simple: the tears would evaporate against impure flesh. You must forgive me for being unable to take your word for it on such a sensitive matter.'

'I wasn't aware my virginity was an issue,' Draco said with narrowed eyes, slightly put out by the accusation that he would possibly lie about such a tedious detail.

'Your innocence is of no matter to me,' his father replied, waving a hand dismissively and ignoring the sharpness of his son's tone. 'What does matter to me, however, are the possible repercussions of your losing it.'

Draco's eyes narrowed further, this time in confusion. 'I don't follow you.'

'Draco, if there is one thing, and one thing alone that I hope to impress upon you as you make the transition to manhood, it is the importance of your heritage. Not once in six centuries has our family line diverted from the path of the pure and untainted, never leaving so much as a Squib or bastard child in our wake.'

'We have also narrowed down our line to a single heir,' Draco added.

It was not that he minded being a single child; truth be told, he was glad for it. But he didn't have any aunts or uncles or cousins on his father's side, and only an insane aunt locked in Azkaban and, possibly, a half-blood cousin of some degree to contend with on his mother's side. It left very little room for error on his part. His mother was growing too old to have another child, which left Draco the sole inheritor of all things Malfoy.

So, naturally, it would be a very terrible tragedy if he, like, died, or something.

'Which only serves to further increase the importance of you grasping the purpose of this conversation,' Lucius said, then paused briefly as a small _crack_ and a quiet shuffle announced the arrival of a house-elf—one of the many Draco didn't recognise by name—and it hastily refilled the glass his father had left empty on the stand. Lucius hissed quietly as the elf clumsily knocked the table, causing the ice in the glass to rattle. 'As a Malfoy, you have many privileges your classmates do not,' his father continued, watching him with a slight tilt of his head. 'In return for these privileges, however, you are forced to sacrifice others. In this case… irresponsible copulation on your part.'

There was a moment of silence as Lucius watched his son, and Draco allowed the words to completely register.

And then he blurted, 'Are you telling me I'm not allowed to have sex?'

Lucius seemed completely unaffected by his son's lack of subtlety on the matter and replied, 'What I am telling you, Draco, is that you are forbidden to put yourself in a position in which you have any chance of prematurely and or irresponsibly procreating.'

Oh, Draco thought, as this further piece of information clicked into place. He sat in silence for a few moments, elbows on his knees and head propped on his hands, staring at the wall and allowing everything to sink in while his father patiently sipped his drink.

'I don't think that's very fair,' Draco said finally, eyes still boring into the opposing wall.

'Simply a precaution,' his father replied smoothly.

Grey eyes snapped back to their sire, narrowed indignantly. 'Still isn't very fair.'

His father chuckled—at least, he removed the malice from his very quiet, controlled sort-of-laugh that Draco very rarely heard. 'I suppose it isn't,' Lucius conceded. 'But it's necessary, however unfair. Though….' He trailed off. This was not something his father usually resorted to, even with awkward topics at hand. Draco raised an eyebrow quizzically. Lucius seemed to contemplate his son very carefully for a moment, before continuing with, 'If you find it unbearable to ignore your ardour, there are…' There was the pause and the careful deliberation again; Draco raised his other eyebrow, and Lucius finished with, '…alternatives.'

'Alternatives?' Draco resisted the urge to furrow his brow. He did not like where this conversation was going, not at all. Unfortunately, he could not think of a reasonable excuse to flee, and was stuck mournfully to the ottoman. When his father simply regarded him with an unreadable expression, Draco voiced some of his desperation. 'Do I want to know?'

'That's what I'm trying to decide,' Lucius said, a smile threatening to play at his lips. 'How much consideration have you given this topic?'

By 'this topic' he assumed his father meant 'sex' and he answered as vaguely as possible. 'Enough,' he said, shrugging.

'Hmm.' Lucius finished his drink, leaving it on the stand again and seeming to ignore its prompt refilling via house-elf. 'Then let me be frank with you.'

_Father, you can't be frank, I think it's a physical impossibility on your part, _Draco thought miserably.

'I am not prescribing that you completely abstain from fornication,' Lucius continued mildly, watching one of his son's eyebrows rise again. 'To be specific, I'm simply forbidding you to do so with anyone for whom parturition would be a possibility.'

Oh, thought Draco. This was quickly followed by another, albeit louder and much more significant, _Oh_.

'Oh,' Draco said aloud, and then grimaced at his lack of both mental and vocal vocabulary. After a moment, he concluded with, 'Well. That's—ah. Hn.' Draco chanced a look at his father, who appeared mildly amused by his son's sudden lack of coherency. 'So, you're saying it only need be unfair if I choose to seek company with just… women?'

'I'm not going to dictate your preferences, Draco, nor do I particularly care to know,' Lucius said, lips forming a rather wolfish smirk. Apparently he had made his point, because he stood up, abandoning the chaise and the full glass waiting dutifully on the stand. 'As I said before, my only concern is that you refrain from siring any illegitimates, prematurely or otherwise. Do we have an accord?'

Leave it to Lucius Malfoy to end a discussion concerning his son's sexual liaisons with the demand of 'do we have an accord.'

'Yes, Father,' Draco said obediently. 'You needn't worry.'

Lucius raised his eyebrows. 'I don't.'

No women, Draco had thought, deadpan, as he watched his father sashay out of the room. No worries, then.

It was that very evening Draco found out his father was a Death Eater.

He remembered the moment vividly; his father had sent him out of the library early that night, forbidding Draco to leave the confines of his bedroom until morning. Tempted with the forbidden fruit, Draco had of course no intention of remaining in his room; clearly, his father was up to something, and Draco was old enough now that curiosity was beginning to overcome the instinctual fear he had of disobeying his sire. After all, what _did_ his father spend all those hours in the drawing room doing? Where did he disappear to when he'd claim to retire to the library, but upon investigating, Draco would find the room empty?

At a younger age, Draco never cared enough to bother finding out. Riding broomsticks and horses and getting reprimanded by his mother when his friends were at the Manor and they'd turn the music up too loud was what occupied most of his time. But recently, Lucius had been so much more on edge; ever since the end of the Triwizard Tournament—on which Lucius absolutely refused to comment more than was necessary, despite Draco's pressing questions about the Dark Lord's rumoured reappearance—he had spent more and more time in seclusion. Lucius was neglecting Draco's weekly duelling sessions and rarely attended meals, and Draco was frequently witnessing his mother retiring to the master bedroom alone.

It was all of this combined with a genuine inability to lie still and go to sleep that prompted Draco to sneak out of his room and back into the library half an hour later. The sight that he beheld there was one burned forever into his memory.

His father was kneeling by the hearth, head bowed low, before a man in long, dark robes, whose face was hidden in shadow. This man emanated a raw power such as Draco had never felt before, a magic so strong it made the air around him feel heavy and blister with heat, as if they were standing amidst a suffocating, sweltering magical fog. The stranger was tall; using the hearth as a reference, Draco guessed he was slightly taller than his father, though also thinner and more relaxed, for the line of Lucius' shoulders was unnaturally rigid as he knelt on the library floor.

From the crack in the door through which Draco was spying, a low hiss was emitted. He stood frozen in terror as the largest snake he had ever seen rose half up in front of him, coiling by the door he held ajar. It had to be at least fifteen feet long and was a dark, dark green, with a black diamond pattern of scales running along its spine. Putrid yellow irises with slit pupils rose until they were level with Draco's, fixing him with an unblinking stare, and it hissed again, louder.

The strange wizard looked up, and a stream of ceaseless spits and hisses erupted from underneath his hood. Draco's blood had become concrete at this point; he had heard that sort of hissing before.

From the mouth of Harry Potter.

'Lucius, it would seem we have a visitor,' said the Parselmouth, reverting to English; the voice was soft, but possessed a dangerous edge that made Draco shiver. The snake staring eye-to-eye with Draco lowered itself and slithered to the feet of the cloaked figure, her belly sliding silently across the Nightingale floor. Lucius stood up slowly and turned to face the door. The fury in his eyes upon seeing his son was masking something else Draco didn't recognise at first.

Draco would realise later that, for the first time in his life, he had seen his father afraid.

'Do come in, boy,' the Parselmouth urged him. 'I don't believe you've had the pleasure.' The man's voice held a demand for obedience that Draco did not dare to defy, and he quickly entered the room, coming to stand beside his father.

'Forgive him, my Lord,' Lucius said cautiously, eyeing Draco with discontent. 'It would seem my son has allowed his curiosity to supersede my sovereignty.'

'Ah, but Lucius, the boy is young, and curiosity is not a sin.' The stranger sounded amused, but his father still wore an expression of distaste.

'Rest assured that it will not happen again, my Lord,' Lucius said, bowing his head slightly. His gaze flashed briefly to Draco, causing him to swallow. The look in his father's eyes was dangerous, and he knew he would be paying for his disobedience later.

'A good-looking boy,' the Parselmouth said approvingly, ignoring Lucius' obviously vehement feelings towards his son and turning his face to Draco. Draco forcibly crushed the urge to recoil from the sight; the black hood of the stranger's cloak framed grey, scaly skin stretched thin over a noseless face that barely resembled something human, and bright, red eyes that bored right through Draco's soul, as if scrutinising every flaw he possessed.

With more fear than any respectable Malfoy should have ever allowed himself to acknowledge, Draco realised whom it was he was facing.

'Draco Malfoy,' Voldemort hissed quietly, still watching him. 'Tell me: are you your father's son?'

Draco, caught off guard by this question, felt his calm façade falter slightly. It sounded very much like a trick question, and he did not have much time to articulate an appropriate response.

'To the best of my ability,' Draco said slowly, and then paused. Unsure of how to properly address the wizard, he was overcome by a small, silent fit of panic; this wasn't some important politician or wealthy friend to be impressed—this was _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_, the most powerful Dark wizard ever known, a man with no mercy and even less patience, and he was addressing Draco. _D__irectly_. '…my Lord,' he finished, mimicking his father's earlier actions and inclining his head slightly.

Thankfully, this seemed to satisfy the Dark Lord. 'You have raised him well, Lucius,' Voldemort said approvingly. 'Now return to your room, Draco, your father and I have business to discuss.'

Terrified and relieved all at once, Draco didn't chance a look at his father before fleeing the library and returning to his own room. He collapsed on the bed, covered in cold sweat that was making his shirt stick to his skin beneath his robes. Shaking, he stripped off his clothes, stumbled into his bathroom and took a very long, cold shower, but did not wash. Instead, he sat on the cold tile floor, with his back to the wall and his knees pulled up to his chest, letting the freezing water soak him through like a heavy rainfall.

He knew the Malfoys had supported Voldemort during the first wizarding war. He knew they would support him through the second. Before now, this had all been a good thing, in Draco's opinion. After all, the less Mudbloods and Muggles to muck with wizarding power, the better. Muggles were stupid savages that were destroying the planet through their inability to respect anything, and good riddance as far as he was concerned. And then they made it worse by breeding with idiotic witches and wizards and watering down the magical bloodline. If that kept up, wizardkind would be all but extinct in several decades' time...

But supporting the Dark Lord was one thing. Being in his direct line of service was entirely another. Draco knew the history. He'd read the books about the first war, he'd heard the stories—and not the rose-tinted versions, either. He knew what the Dark Lord was capable of. People _died_ in his service. Whole _families_ had been exterminated, entire lines wiped out—Muggle-born, half-blood and pure-blood alike. And to add insult to injury, all this time... all this time, his father had been a Death Eater. Lucius bore the Dark Mark, and hadn't even trusted his son enough to tell him so. And now Voldemort was in his _house..._ _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is standing in our library_...

The Dark Lord had addressed him directly... _and you called him 'my Lord'._

His stomach gave a very sudden, unpleasant lurch, and the next moment he was doubled over, retching all over the tile floor.

: : : : :

After Draco had stormed out of his room that morning, Harry had expected Hermione to explain what the deal was. But he had once again been reminded of how very stubborn Hermione was wont to be, because she had absolutely refused to budge on the subject.

'Did you call him _Draco?' _he'd demanded.

She had graced him with a very withering look. 'That _was_ his name, last time I checked.'

'All right,' Harry had said, exasperated, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. 'And what was it he should be telling me?'

Hermione had looked at him for a moment, wringing her hands and furrowing her brow, and then very suddenly sprung to with a shrug, adopting an indifferent expression. 'Oh, it's nothing, Harry. He was just being a pillock, you know, the usual.' She'd waved her hand dismissively. 'So, what did Remus want?'

No amount of prodding had achieved a better result, so, after an hour of attempting to trick it out of her, Harry had given up and turned his full attention to assisting Arthur and Terry in de-cursing and putting up some of the Ministry wards around the Manor, disabling any already in place that conflicted with those they were installing. The installation of Ministry spells would allow proper monitoring of the Manor, and alert them of any suspicious magical events taking place, and more importantly keep track of Narcissa's goings about, as she was technically under house-arrest while Draco fulfilled his end of the contract. It required a surprising level of meticulousness, as the Manor was very, very large and—according to Terry—used not only very Dark Magic (which was dangerous in normal use, never mind when trying to disable or alter it) but also a lot of spells that were, by the book, 'outdated'; and magic, much like liquor, was the sort of thing that grew stronger with age.

Since the confrontation in Draco's room, Harry hadn't seen him at all—through Remus he discovered that Draco had snuck back into his room when the group had taken a break for lunch, and informed Remus that he'd be spending the rest of the day there, and to 'please tell the rest of those sods to stay bloody buggered off'. Harry hadn't bothered to argue, and with assurances that Remus and Arthur would periodically be checking to make sure Draco wasn't up to anything untoward, had resigned himself to assisting Terry finish his de-cursing.

Narcissa had persuaded them to stay for dinner, as well, though the persuasion was mostly accidental; she had simply mentioned that Nivens and the other house-elves had made an especially large meal for their guests, and Hermione adamantly refused to let anyone leave without eating since the house-elves had gone to all that trouble. It had been like one of those really uncomfortable family-meets-future-in-laws meals, where no one spoke aside from when necessary, and they all constantly shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. Remus attempted to engage in small talk with Narcissa, who was as uncannily polite as she had been that morning, but the majority of the noise came from the clinking of glasses and scraping of plates with utensils. The meal itself was spectacular; the house-elves here were just as proud and eager to show off as those at Hogwarts.

Terry and Luna left together, and Hermione had followed shortly thereafter. Arthur and Remus were staying the night with Harry, and Remus took the first shift; Arthur would nap until taking over after midnight. Nivens showed Harry to one of the many guest rooms, but Harry insisted on skulking off to the library. He was too overwhelmed by the events of the last week to turn in early; instead, he took to poring over the enormous selection of texts on Dark Magic in the Malfoy library, planning to read until he was exhausted enough to pass out, sod his surroundings.

He propped himself up with one elbow and took off his glasses, rubbing his forehead with his free hand. His scar prickled uncomfortably and made him feel disgustingly hot despite the cool, relaxed atmosphere of the room.

The sun had just begun to set over the forest, leaving shades of navy and turquoise blending above the trees before fading into the darker sky overhead, where stars were beginning to appear. Harry could hear crickets outside the open panel in the large windows of the library, chirping contently in the paddock visible from the ledge; the windowsill was large and had a cushion fashioned into it with several comfortable pillows, and Harry was draped across it on his stomach, a large book open before him. The fire in the hearth, which was crackling and beginning to die, was the only source of light in the room besides the small, old-fashioned oil lamp Harry had near his head to light the text he was reading. It was one of the many ancient books that seemed to call this library home, probably the only copy in existence.

_The more powerful the magickal properties are of the Item, the stronger the resulting vitality. Mundane, laymen objects have not the capacity to sustain a Shard, much less defend against outside forces. When choosing an object to charge, one must be most meticulous in the selective process, for the Item's resilience is the principle defence..._

Harry yawned. From what he could decipher, the book was one of several that the Manor's library housed on the making of Horcruxes; it was hard to tell for sure, however, as all the books cleverly refrained from mentioning the word 'Horcrux' anywhere, though they made many references to their characteristics, and the consequences and benefits of creating them.

He returned to the text until the fire had died down to embers and the oil lamp flickered pitifully—the flame of the Valaetas was brighter than that of the lamp. Outside, the sky had turned into a dark blanket sprinkled with stars, more stars than Harry ever saw from his flat in central London, where streetlights obscured most of them; at the Manor, everything outside was dark and ominous, and the sky glittered like millions of tiny diamonds laid out on black velvet, clustered here and there in various constellations, outshone only by the waning moon, a thick crescent of white among the stars.

It was by this light that Harry happened to notice a small figure moving across the lawn towards the paddock. Turning the oil lamp down and off so that the library fell into complete darkness, he squinted out the window. The figure was all black with an unmistakable white-blonde head, and Harry watched as Draco trotted towards the paddock fence behind the Manor.

How Draco had slipped out of his room without being noticed, Harry did not know, but he'd be damned if he was going to let Draco out of his sight for a minute. After all, people did not sneak out of their rooms in the middle of the night for a pleasure hike in the dark. Rolling off the ledge, Harry winced as his foot touched the library floor and it let out a pleasant but loud _huaaaawm._

Bloody singing floor.

Glancing at the window, Harry wagered he could fit through the half-open pane, and shoved the Invisibility Cloak he'd been using as a pillow out ahead of him. With some delicate wriggling and twisting, he managed to squeeze through the space and tumble onto the ground several feet below. It was a cool evening, but comfortable, and Harry didn't shiver in his t-shirt. He had the cloak, anyway, if it got colder, and he didn't have time to find a coat or jumper because Draco was jogging across the distant grass, a white, bobbing spot in the darkness.

Draco reached the fence and vaulted over it with ease, and Harry slipped the cloak over himself as he followed, making sure to stay far enough behind so that he wouldn't be overheard, crunching along in the long, overgrown pasture, squashing thick thatches of plants and assorted wildflowers. Harry had seen stables beyond the paddock through the window earlier, but he hadn't noticed any animals. Now, Draco running through the grass roused the idle horses. Several of them clustered nearby raised their heads as he went past; one of them shook itself, whinnied, and picked up a trot to follow behind him.

It looked like a rather large, perky puppy on Draco's heels, head bobbing, snorting at regular intervals. Harry couldn't see Draco's face in the dark from this distance, but he could see him reach out a hand and rub the animal's shoulder affectionately. His jog slowed to a fast walk, and the horse plodded beside him, head slung low and swinging sideways with every step, and Harry could see that even with its head lowered, its back was almost as tall as Draco. Harry was surprised; the last time he had seen Draco with anything close to that size, it had been Buckbeak, and Draco had been absolutely terrified of it. His apparent ease with the horse's presence was almost as surprising to see as the horse's own affinity with him.

They walked for what seemed like hours; Draco leading the way, the horse keeping pace, Harry trailing behind at about twenty feet. At one point they entered a very sparse wood of birch and evergreens, think trunks spaced widely apart with a thick canopy overhead through which Harry could see only hints of the stars. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees and the heavy _thuh-duh-thuh-duh_ of the horse's steps ahead muffled the snaps of twigs beneath Harry's feet. The trip continued until they reached a break in the trees that opened onto a small clearing, through the middle of which a small creek with sandy banks bubbled.

Draco came to rest in the clearing, just before the creek. The horse stopped beside him, and Harry halted just inside the tree line, crouching beside the soft trunk of a birch. It had been a long walk and Harry, having already been tired in the library, gave a huge yawn under the safety of the cloak. He didn't know what Draco was up to way out here on his own with a horse in the middle of the night, but it didn't seem nearly as sinister as Harry had originally imagined. He watched with heavy-eyed, sleepy curiosity as Draco mounted the horse, bareback, and proceeded to ride in various laps around the area.

Harry himself knew very little about riding or horses in general, but Draco made it look like an art; even without the use of tack, he managed to remain straight-backed and stayed firmly fixed to the animal under him. It was almost like watching a dance, the way they circled around, the horse's gait changing periodically, sometimes jumping the occasional log or cluster of rocks.

By the time Draco dismounted, it was well after sunset, and Harry was struggling to stay awake; the sky overhead was pitch black, with thousands of tiny, sparkling pin-pricks twinkling down through the trees. Draco seemed to have noticed too, because he stood next to the horse for a moment, arms and head draped over its back, staring up at the sky. Harry let himself take his eyes off Draco and stare up for a while, getting lost in the constellations. It wasn't until he heard a loud whinny and the thudding of hooves that he looked down again.

Now there were two horses. Draco must have shifted into his Animagus form while Harry was looking at the stars, and he was a brilliantly white spot against the night, practically glowing in the darkness as he trotted in a small circle around the other horse. The real horse—much darker, it looked black like the rest of the woods—made an impatient sounding noise and broke into a gallop, running back towards the stream and following it across the clearing. Draco's horse form hesitated, and for a moment Harry was sure that it was looking back into the trees, looking right at _him_—did Draco know he was here? But in a heartbeat the moment was gone, and Draco-the-horse looked away, and took off after his companion.

Harry had no idea how long they had been out. It was a lot colder now, and he pulled the cloak tighter around him. Soon, he thought, he should go and find Draco and drag him back to the Manor, so he could get some sleep... but Draco was running in circles, chasing the other horse, cantering through the water, and generally seemed to be having a good time. It was fun to watch, and Harry smiled a little as the white horse reared, whinnied, burst into a fast run and jumped clear over the stream—a good six foot leap—and the other horse soon followed, and the chasing game began all over again.

It couldn't hurt to leave him at it for a little while longer, Harry reasoned, yawning. Another ten, twenty minutes…

: : :

Draco Malfoy was fighting a very strong urge to roll in an enormous pile of manure.

The horse in his head seemed to think it was a simply wonderful idea—it would make him smell excellent, and there was a mare, _right over there_, that he had to go impress! She'd be so proud if he plopped down and did a few twists in the stuff, just enough to rub it in and make it really _stick_. According to the horse, the smell of dung and mud all over would make him irresistible to females everywhere.

Draco was begging to differ.

Unsurprisingly, being an Animagus took a hell of a lot of practise to master, both in physiological and physical aspects. For instance, one might have thought that going from two legs to four would be easier than vice versa. As Draco had discovered on his first complete transformation into his Animagus form, this was most certainly not the case. His first night of full transformation involved countless scrapes and bruises, many pulled muscles, several broken bones and just a lot of falling over in general.

By now, Draco had managed to master most of the basic functions of a quadrupedal, super-paranoid herbivore. The things he still had problems with now were suppressing the natural instincts and behaviours of the animal; he constantly found his conscious fighting with the horse's over the best plan of action in a given situation.

The horse, for example, was of the opinion that he was the best thing to come along since pewter cauldrons, and that anything that approached that wasn't a mare in-season could sod off or receive a hoof to the face. It was also of the opinion that dark, windy nights like tonight were Very Bad, because anything that moved—including the long grass in the wind—in his peripheral vision was an immediate cause for alarm.

This presented the horse with a paradox; ignore potential Doom in the darkness in order to impress the mare with his obviously excellent form and possibly be eaten, or turn tail and find a stable to huddle in and kick at the walls for the rest of the night. The constant indecision caused the animal's mind to be in a high state of agitation, and it gave Draco the distinct impression of a five-year-old tugging at his sleeves and asking over and over, 'Are we there yet? Are we there? Are we are we are we? Huh? Huh? _Huh?'_

Annoyances aside, however, Draco had found a new passion in running—_nothing_ except flying could top running at full-gallop as a horse; they were pure powerwhen it came to speed, all muscles and tendons and lungs pumping, pounding, thundering across the ground with such grace that it felt as if he hardly touched the earth. It was exhilarating_. _He could spend hours like that, just running to and fro, getting completely lost in time and place. And the best part about all of this was that an Animagus form was quite literally the animalversion of oneself, so aside from sharing the pain of injury, he also shared any exercise as well. Running around the paddock all afternoon was the equivalent of Draco running several marathons in a row, and certainly had had a positive effect on his physique.

It also exhausted him rather quickly, which, the occasional wank notwithstanding, was quite frankly the only way available for him to remedy four years of unresolved sexual frustration.

The stallion inside him was growing increasingly restless. Draco knew why; he could smell rain coming, and rain meant wind and thunder and wetness, which all made it harder to detect predators, and it drove the horses absolutely mad. Draco personally enjoyed the rain; it left everything clean and fresh and smelling wonderful, and he loved to run in the rain as much as he loved to fly in it, but running was by far the safer option when one took into account things like high winds and lightning.

Draco also knew he had been followed. In this form, he could detect every squirrel in the massive black forest behind him, and Harry Potter was about as stealthy to a horse as an elephant was to a hyper-sensitive mouse. The moment he'd adopted the horse's senses of smell and hearing, he had noticed the loud plod of human footsteps, the strange scent of sawdust and sweat that was typical of anything human that had recently been near a broom, dusted with a trace of ash from whooshing through a fireplace.

He could not see him—Harry would be using his Invisibility Cloak, of course—but Draco knew he was there; watching, waiting, somewhere just inside the tree line. However, oddly enough, he had not approached Draco, demanding to know what he was doing, so Draco continued to act as if he were unaware. He had had enough Harry Potter to last him the rest of the week, month, possibly year. If Harry wanted to stand in the trees and watch, let him. Didn't bother him.

Right, Draco thought bitterly. If only a horse's eyes could roll...

The stallion, on the other hand, truly didn't care that it could smell Harry. Harry was a human, and humans meant food or sometimes work and other annoying things, but they weren't anything to worry about. The stallion was more concerned with the mare off to his right, trotting along the streambed, getting wet and muddy and looking like she was having a very good time. Horses were like dogs in that way; they loved running in circles for no particular reason, playing and getting dizzy and soaked and dirty and rolling in everything. It was completely disgusting when he thought about it, but it was also a lot of fun—and really, that was what he needed right now.

The mare stopped along the streambed, water lapping at her hocks; she raised her head at him and whinnied. The white stallion snorted loudly in reply, and, carefully side-stepping the pile of manure in the grass, trotted off to join her.

: : :

Harry unconsciously pulled himself into a tighter huddle, the bark of the tree cutting into his back through the cloak, and screwed his eyes up. It'd been six years... _six years_ and he was still having this dream. Harry knew it was a dream, and he had it memorised all too well; and there was nothing he could do to keep from reliving it.

He didn't know why it bothered him so much; Cedric was only one of many that had died because of the war. He'd hardly even _known_ Cedric. If anything, he thought, he should have been suffering nightmares about mysterious veils and the Astronomy Tower, but no—it was always the same dream, same graveyard, same horrible, raspy voice hissing—

'_Kill the spare.'_

It wasn't fair that he had to relive that moment. The dreams had actually stopped for a while, after he'd left Hogwarts. He thought he'd gotten over the graveyard, and went into his Auror training after NEWTs, and things were all right for a while. He had gotten his own place, saw Ron and Hermione near daily at the Ministry, and got full nights of sleep for perhaps the first time in his life.

All of that changed the first time he killed another human being.

His first day as a qualified Auror, Harry had been called in, along with every other Magical Law Enforcement Officer the Ministry had, to deal with a surge of Dementors that had attacked a small town in Devonshire. They were accompanied by half a dozen Death Eaters, who, as the Ministry discovered too late, had arranged the attack in order to cover for a much smaller operation going on elsewhere—the attempted murder of Marius' son, Ian, along with the rest of his family.

Harry had been one of the only people that were out-spoken about the Devonshire attack being a diversion—he had a feeling, a very, very strong feeling that something else was going on that night, something larger than the terrorisation of random Muggles. Arthur, of course, had believed him, but he was heading the squad out in Devon and had to remain there. One of the other rookie Aurors—Harry couldn't even remember the idiot's name anymore, he'd been fired afterwards—had Apparated with Harry to Sussex, and the moment they'd seen the Dark Mark hovering over the Constantine household, there was no more arguing with Harry's intuition. They'd sent an immediate message for backup, and Harry wanted to go in right away, in case anyone was still alive. The bloody idiot with him was too cowardly, so Harry had gone in alone.

He remembered that night all too well—the screaming and sobbing always came back to him with terrible clarity. Katherine had only been sixteen at the time; the two Death Eaters had forced her and her mother to watch as they 'punished' her brother, then had proceeded to kill both Ian and the mother—but Katherine was a very pretty girl, even Harry would attest to that, and apparently too good an opportunity to pass up for the bastards that had come to murder her and her family.

Harry had recognised one of them. At first he couldn't believe his eyes when he saw the thin, weedy form of Theodore Nott standing over the girl, wand trained on her and laughing. Nott was _his age—_he'd been in the same year at Hogwarts, and Harry had sat through classes with the Slytherin for seven years, and now he had walked in on him in the midst of raping a sixteen-year-old girl.

Damned if he was about to stand by and wait when there was a chance to save someone, despite the fact that he _knew_ that taking on two armed and dangerous Death Eaters alone wasn't a wise thing to do; the main problem, he found, was that it was impossible to incapacitate either of them. When he tried to Stun one, the other would block it, while the one he'd attacked retaliated. The only thing to do in that situation, per his Auror training, was the unfortunate option of casting an unblockable curse. Harry had tried to avoid that option anyway—he sent a Stunning spell at Theodore, who blocked it, just as the other Death Eater wheeled around and pulled out his wand...

It had been the sickest feeling in the world, Harry remembered, having the words _Avada Kedavra _leave his mouth.

Harry winced as the green light flashed through his mind, the same words repeating over and over; Cedric's shocked, lifeless eyes, the laughter and jeers of the Death Eaters around them, the sneering, noseless face of Voldemort as he stood over Harry... mocking, taunting, telling him how he was going to kill him...

Harry shuddered. Something velutinous and warm was nuzzling the crook of his neck, gently nudging his shoulder. Soft, fine hairs tickled his neck and cheek... a warm breath gusted into his collar, a silky, hirsute form was rubbing against his head and shoulder...

Harry couldn't identify it, but whatever it was, it was comforting, and his eyes flickered open momentarily. His vision met an expanse of stark white hairs that blended down into a soft, velvety grey muzzle and nostrils that flared, blowing hot air against his cheek again. Sighing, exhausted, and relieved to be free from the nightmare, Harry leaned into the touch, resting his head against the warmth. It leaned back, supporting his weight, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep again.

Only this time, he didn't dream.

: : :

_People that see unicorns share with them a distinct trait;_  
_they're lonely—with virtuous hearts._  
—unknown

: : :

Harry woke with a start and a strong feeling of déjà vu. There was a warm body against his, pressing into his shoulder, entirely too close for comfort just after awakening. As he turned his head and opened his mouth to speak, a hand clamped firmly over it and held his head in place. Instinct told Harry this was a Very Bad Situation and that he should react immediately and with force, but a soft voice in his ear quelled the impulse.

'Easy, Potter,' Draco breathed. His face was directly beside Harry's, so close that when he looked sideways he could count Draco's eyelashes. Draco was squinting, eyelids forming sharp angles around their stormy centres, and he wasn't blinking. 'Don't move,' Draco whispered. 'Don't make a sound.'

Harry's first impression was that it was still pre-dawn, but with a quick glance beyond the canopy of the trees, he could see that it was overcast and probably late morning. He inhaled deeply through his nose and smelt a crisp, piquant scent from Draco's hand mingled with cool rain on the breeze; he felt a sprinkle of moisture carried down through the trees and could hear the threatening rumble of thunder overhead.

Once again, he glanced at Draco, who still had both eyes focused in the distance. Harry had never been this close to him before, and he noted some minute details with a significant amount of surprise. Absurdly enough, the first thing that came to Harry's attention was that Draco was showing signs of stubble; his hair was so fair that, even with such pale skin, it was the sort of thing he wouldn't have noticed without being this close. And yet, even after spending all night in the woods, his hair and features managed to remain inexcusably immaculate. His skin was evenly toned and unblemished, just a shade darker than his hair, much paler than Harry's own sun-kissed tan. His eyelashes were a dark, dark blonde, almost brown, and his eyes, with the drab hue of the sky reflecting off them, were dark grey with hints of blue, roughly the same colour as the surface of a stormy ocean.

He also realised that despite his thin appearance—and contrary to his record of lost fights—Draco seemed remarkably strong; when he tried to squirm between Draco and the tree, Draco held him firm with little effort. With a noteworthy struggle, he managed to free the arm that was by the tree, on the other side of him from Draco, and slowly reached for his back pocket, searching. Before he could react to the absence he encountered there, Draco shoved something in his other hand. Harry gripped the wands and eyed Draco suspiciously, but Draco still had his other hand clamped over Harry's mouth, and shook his head slightly.

'Now will you relax?' Draco hissed quietly. He nodded in the direction he was gazing. 'Look.'

Harry followed his eyes and his breath caught in his throat. Suddenly, all of Draco's odd behaviour made sense, because just beyond the tree line, on the other side of the creek and stepping daintily across the sandy bank, was a unicorn.

'Not a sound,' Draco mouthed, holding a finger to his lips, and then slowly removed his hand from Harry's mouth.

Harry began to breathe again, but more quietly, eyes fixed on the unicorn that was currently investigating the ground with idle curiosity. A three-foot ivory horn spiralled out of its forehead, and the entire animal managed to sparkle in the absence of the sun, a sure sign that this was indeed a very potent magical creature. The horse Draco had ridden and frolicked with the previous night was still there, grazing not five metres from where the unicorn was treading and decidedly ignoring it.

'Stay there.' Draco quietly edged away from him, carefully stepping closer to the edge of the trees. Now that Draco had moved away, he was suddenly aware of how very chilly it was; Draco's warmth had been inadvertently shielding him from the cold wind whipping through the trees. Without looking away from the creek, he felt around by his feet for his Invisibility Cloak; finding it, he slowly and silently wrapped it around his shoulders, gaining some protection against the cold.

The wind was blowing towards them from the unicorn, pushing the hair from their eyes and causing them both to squint. Draco was standing but stooped, eyes evaluating the situation, before he took a careful step out into the open. Harry watched him curiously, unsure of what Draco expected to accomplish wandless; unicorns were shy, wary animals and it would bolt as soon as it saw him, surely.

Once past the trees, Draco continued through the clearing towards the creek with even steps, unhesitating. He was halfway there before the unicorn looked up, sharply, ears snapping to attention and horn lowered to the approximate level of Draco's chest in warning. Draco paused and the unicorn stamped a hoof and snorted loudly; the brown horse stopped grazing and looked up, its ears pointed curiously at its owner, but otherwise nothing moved.

Then, slowly, as if granting permission, the unicorn raised its head, and its horn along with it. Draco seemed to relax and walked forward again, stopping at the edge of the closest stream bank, not six feet from the unicorn. Harry held his breath again as the unicorn began moving forward. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but as the unicorn came midway across the small brook, water black under the cloudy sky, Harry could no longer deny it; the unicorn was walking onthesurface of the water. Harry watched, transfixed, as Draco dropped gracefully to one knee, head lowered but eyes raised, following the tip of the horn that was once again pointed at his person.

Landing on the bank Draco knelt before, the unicorn surveyed him with bright, amber eyes and snorted, before running the tip of its horn down Draco's forehead with fastidious care, hairline to the tip of his nose. Draco's eyes fluttered closed at the touch and the unicorn pulled its head back, as if surveying its work, whinnying softly and shaking its head and neck with a great heave of its shoulders. Draco held out his left hand, palm up, and the unicorn lowered its muzzle into it, nostrils flaring.

A small, odd smile was playing at Draco's lips, and he touched the horn lightly with the fingertips of his right hand before running his palm down the flat surface of the unicorn's head. The unicorn rested its horn on Draco's shoulder and leaned into the touch, closing its eyes. Draco leaned forward, his own eyes still closed, his nose and forehead becoming lost in the shimmering, wavy coils of white silk falling between the unicorn's ears.

It was without a doubt one of the most spellbinding things Harry had ever seen.

Then, without warning, a strong wind surged from behind Harry, rustling his cloak and causing his hair to whip uncomfortably around the backs of his ears. The unicorn jerked away from Draco, jumping backwards and half-rearing, eyes fixed on the trees where Harry crouched, hidden in the shadows. Neighing in agitation, the unicorn pawed the ground briefly before whirling, galloping across the creek, hooves penetrating the water this time and splashing wildly, and vanishing swiftly into the opposite curtain of trees.

Draco made a face as he stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets. He watched the trees for a moment before turning his head towards the brown horse and whistling once; the horse looked up from the grass once more, and trotted enthusiastically towards him, tossing its head, and as it came up alongside Draco, he grabbed a fistful of its mane and heaved himself up, swinging his leg over the side and mounting it bareback. The horse slowed as Draco settled atop it, walking steadily towards the trees, where Harry was just beginning to stand up.

Draco ducked to avoid low-hanging branches as the horse walked under the canopy, and ran both hands through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes; his face was heavily shadowed by the trees, but from the centre of his forehead, from hairline to halfway down his nose, was a shining strip of silvery white, gleaming through the contrasting dark like an iridescent scar.

Harry stared at him. 'Malfoy, what—'

'It'll wear off in a few minutes,' Draco assured him, tucking some of his hair behind his ears and bringing his mount to a halt. 'It's just a revitalising spell—good for insomnia—' he paused, '—and hangovers, for that matter,' he added with a small smirk.

At this, Harry's mind dimly registered that the split lip Draco had boasted yesterday was gone; in fact, he had gone from looking positively haggard to appearing to be the epitome of good health. He didn't look nearly as gaunt as he had the previous day, the shadows under his eyes had disappeared, and his skin had a hale glow to it in the semi-darkness. 'But what—'

'Hell, Potter, I've met Muggles with more magical knowledge than you,' Draco interrupted, sounding exasperated. 'Are you telling me that in those eleven years before Hogwarts, you never read _anything_ on unicorn lore?'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'I figure I learned everything I need to know about them in school,' he replied curtly.

'In school they generally don't go over the benefits of baiting wild unicorns,' Draco said, 'or else everyone would be doing it, and they would probably be extinct.'

Harry folded his arms around the Invisibility Cloak he was holding. 'I know enough,' he insisted, determined not to be undermined. 'And if I recall, they prefer girls.'

'Maidens, actually, and that's just a myth from Muggle lore,' Draco corrected. 'Kids are actually the best bait.'

'Then why did it come to you?'

Draco raised his eyebrows. 'Benefit of chastity, Potter.'

Harry blinked. 'You're a virgin?' he blurted.

'Not by choice.' Draco smirked at him. 'Unfortunately, Mother has some principle against the hiring of courtesans. Woe is me, I suppose.'

Harry did not know why this information surprised him; another narrow-minded assumption on his part, probably. And it made perfect sense, for Draco had fled Hogwarts at just barely seventeen, and then spent the next four years locked inside the Manor, leaving very little opportunity for socialising. In all fairness, his being a virgin really shouldn't have come as a surprise.

In the short silence that ensued as Harry thought about this, Draco looked him over once more. 'Cold?'

'You think?' Harry said, rubbing his forearms under his cloak. The wind was becoming stronger and colder now, and the drizzle was falling more heavily, penetrating the thick cover of trees. It was a far cry from t-shirt weather.

Draco regarded him curiously for a moment; then, right hand tangled securely in the caramel-coloured mane of the horse, he lowered his left towards Harry. 'Want a ride?'

Harry stared at him. 'Come again?'

Draco shrugged. 'It's a long walk.'

Harry didn't move immediately; it was stupid, really, to feel apprehensive about something like this, he reasoned. Draco was still unarmed, and Harry had ridden both a Hippogriff and a Thestral before, and didn't hold any reservations about getting on the back of a horse, even considering the lack of tack. Still, it was the back of a horse with _Malfoy, _and even if he trusted his own abilities, he certainly didn't trust Draco.

Thunder rumbled loudly overhead. The horse made an impatient, nasal noise and stamped a hoof.

Making up his mind, Harry clamped both wands between his teeth, tossed the cloak over one shoulder, and took Draco's hand. His grip was warm and dry, and with the uncanny strength Harry had noticed earlier, Draco's arm took most of the strain in helping Harry vault onto the back of the horse. It was a lot higher than it looked from the ground, and Harry teetered dangerously before he found his centre of gravity. With every breath, the horse's massive lungs expanded against his calves, the animal serving as a warm and reassuring mass underneath him. Harry felt his apprehension wane and he nodded to Draco to show he was ready, pocketing the wands now that he was up and balanced.

It wasn't until the horse began to move that Harry realised he didn't have anything to hold onto.

The previous night, Draco had made riding look a lot more graceful and easy than it actually felt; the horse stepped forward, just starting to walk, and Harry practically lurched forwards into Draco, who tensed and absorbed the impact without losing his balance.

'Generally, it's suggested that you try to move _with_ the horse,' Draco said, though not unkindly.

'Shut up,' Harry said, desperately searching for something to steady himself on. There was Draco, obviously, but Harry had no intention of using Draco's hips, arms or shoulders as a means of balancing himself, thank you very much. 'These things should come with handlebars,' he muttered.

He didn't intend for Draco to hear it, but as his mouth was level with the back of Draco's neck, it was inevitable that he did. 'We can swap, if you like,' he offered.

'Thanks, but I have no desire to be molested by you,' Harry remarked dryly, stomach tightening as the horse increased its pace to a trot.

'Please, you're practically gagging for it,' Draco drawled. Harry ignored him. Chuckling, Draco continued, 'You can always try holding your arms out on both sides—' Draco demonstrated briefly, holding his arms out as if he were tightrope walking—even though he couldn't see it, Harry could tell Draco was smirking, '—or, if you're really going to be that stubborn,' he continued, lowering his arms, 'try leaning back and keeping your palms flat on the flanks.'

Harry tried this; it was a bit awkward, but sufficed, and was certainly better than the alternative. Even so, his legs and knees were bumping haphazardly against the backs of Draco's thighs, though Draco didn't seem to notice, sitting straight-backed with apparent ease, one hand lightly grasping the mane and the other resting in his lap.

The horse skipped a few paces as it clambered out of the woods into the pasture Harry had followed Draco through the previous evening; clear of the foliage, the Manor was now clearly visible and close. Dark grey clouds were merging overhead, causing the long grass inside the paddock to sway. Other horses were about, some grazing, most trotting restlessly in anticipation of the coming storm.

'What were you doing out there?' Harry asked abruptly.

'Think I was running off to turn you in?' Draco asked.

'What was I supposed to think when I noticed you sneaking out in the dark unannounced?'

'Well, in all honesty, you weren't _supposed_ to notice.'

'Well, I did. So what _were_ you doing?'

'Weren't you watching?' Draco asked with an air of impatience. 'I was practising, you pillock.'

Harry ignored the insult. 'Practising?'

'Transforming,' Draco said. 'McGonagall sent an owl last night that outlined how to complete the process with material items and I wanted to try it out.'

'Couldn't you have done that _in_ the house?'

'I could have, but if I'm going to suffer the shift-lag and lack of sleep, I might as well get more out of it.'

Harry braced himself as the horse did a small skip over a forgotten log in the pasture. 'What do you mean?'

'Best way to learn how to be a horse is _from_ a horse. It's not as if you shift into your Animagus form and instantly know what you're doing.' Draco fell silent for a moment. 'It's the closest thing to flying, you know,' he added finally, 'running as a horse. Without leaving the ground, anyway.' Draco looked back over his shoulder, as if checking that Harry was still there. 'Have you ever ridden a horse before?'

Harry snorted. 'Muggle upbringing, remember?'

Draco shrugged. 'Plenty of Muggles keep horses.'

Images of a horse living in the backyard of number four, Privet Drive briefly flashed through Harry's mind, and he could already hear Aunt Petunia's screams reverberating inside his skull. 'Not these Muggles.' He paused, then added, 'But I've ridden a Hippogriff and a Thestral, which I suppose almost counts.'

Harry was thrown forward again, knocking into Draco as he brought the horse to an abrupt stop and said, 'You've ridden a _what?'_

'Ow,' Harry said, wincing. 'Er. You know, Buckbeak,' he said by way of explanation. 'And a Thestral—one of Hagrid's, back at Hogwarts.'

Draco had turned around halfway, so that he looked very off-balance; Harry was sure he would fall off, what with the horse shifting its weight restlessly underneath them, but Draco may as well have been strapped in for all the wobbling he did. 'When the hell did you ride a Thestral?'

'Fifth year,' Harry said automatically. 'After...' He trailed off as the memories came flooding back, and felt his insides go cold. 'I really don't want to talk about it.' Draco continued to look at him for a moment, then shrugged and turned back around, and the horse started moving again. 'Why do you ask?' Harry said suddenly. 'I mean, if I've ever ridden before—am I doing something wrong?'

'Isn't much to do wrong so long as you stay on,' Draco replied, still facing forward.

'I guess,' Harry said. 'You know,' he continued after a moment, 'you're like, the last person in the world I would picture as being on friendly terms with a horse. Even if you can… well, you know. Turn into one.'

Draco turned his head and raised an eyebrow at him. 'It's not really that unusual for wizards to keep horses. Most major Quidditch stars have been brought up riding.'

Harry shook his head. 'That's not what I meant. I mean, you couldn't even handle a Hippogriff—'

'Yes, well,' Draco said, cutting him off sharply, 'as you can see, my horse has neither talons nor malicious intent.' As if to emphasise this statement, said horse snorted loudly beneath them.

'Buckbeak wasn't malicious, you were being an arrogant prat.'

'I was fucking thirteen,' Draco said defensively. 'And _you_, of all people, have no right calling anyone—'

He stopped talking abruptly as he looked up; over his shoulder, Harry saw that they were nearly at the paddock fence, and the small, furious-looking figure of Hermione was storming across the grass towards them. Draco slowed the horse, bringing it to a halt as she reached them.

_'Where have you been?' _For a very small person, Hermione managed to look awfully imposing, even when they were sitting on the back of a large horse. 'Remus and Arthur have been searching the _entire Manor _for you both since sunrise!'

'Chill your knickers, Granger,' Draco sneered, his voice reverting to the more familiar, snippy, holier-than-thou tone. Harry was surprised by the realisation that Draco had been talking to him normally, even pleasantly, beforehand, and he hadn't even noticed the change in his tone until he'd addressed Hermione. 'Just because his mother's dead doesn't mean you have to take over coddling him.'

'_Your_ mother is in a right state,' Hermione snapped, rounding on him—as well as she could, taking into account that they were still on a horse and she was still on the ground and only came up to Draco's knee. 'Sneaking off alone in the middle of the night like that! What did you expect us to think?'

'It's alright, Hermione,' Harry said, dismounting beside her. Draco stayed on the horse, most likely in an attempt to remain looking superior. Harry noticed that the mark on his forehead had already faded. 'We're fine.'

'And thank goodness for that! You can't just _wander off_ around here, Harry! And _you_,' she hissed, turning on Draco again. 'Don't sit there looking smug, like you've done nothing wrong. You're not allowed to go anywhere without either mine or Harry's permission, and buggering off in the middle of the night is a clear violation of the only thing keeping you out of Azkaban, Malfoy!'

Draco narrowed his eyes; he had clearly not considered this point before. He started to respond, but Harry interrupted before he could. 'He didn't, Hermione. He had my permission, and I was with him the entire time.'

Draco blinked. 'I did?'

'He _did?_' Hermione blurted over him.

'Yes, I did,' Draco amended before Hermione could assess what he'd said before. 'Mutual camping trip. Guy thing, really. We were _bonding, _Granger.'

Hermione bristled slightly, shooting Draco a nasty look, but turned her attention back to Harry in the end. 'You still should have let Arthur and Remus know where you were going—we were all terrified something had happened to you. _Both_ of you,' she added, still refusing to look at Draco, who raised an eyebrow at the remark. 'Anyway, we should get back and let them know you're all right—'

'I have to take her in, first.' Draco patted the horse's neck affectionately, running his fingers through her mane. 'She's been out all night, needs to be cooled down.'

'I'll talk to Arthur,' Harry said, nodding. Hermione had her arms folded, and was still glaring at him. Harry sighed heavily. 'I'm _sorry_, alright? I didn't mean for anyone to worry.'

'You never do,' Hermione said, quietly. 'Anyway, that's fine, just go quick, they all still think you're missing—Arthur might have sent an owl off to Minerva by now.'

She watched Harry haul himself over the fence and sprint towards the back of the Manor with mild exasperation. He just didn't understand how much people worried about him even when he _wasn't_ doing stupid things that put him in horrible danger; he never had, and likely never would. It was just one of those things that came with being one of Harry Potter's best friends—but someone had to do it.

'You didn't tell him,' Draco said as soon as Harry was out of earshot. He had rearranged himself on the horse, so that he was now lying across its back on his stomach, arms folded over its withers and head resting on his forearms. 'Or at least, I assume not, as he hasn't accosted me about it yet.'

Hermione huffed. 'No, I haven't,' she said, meeting his eyes. 'I decided he has enough on his mind, without having to feel guilty about _you_.'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'How predictably thoughtful of you.'

'You don't deserve his remorse,' she added stiffly.

He gave her a very long, hard look before pushing himself back up into a sitting position. 'What the hell makes you think I want it?'

With a small push of his heels, the horse jumped into motion, trotting alongside the fence towards a long row of stables at the end of the field. Hermione watched him go without bothering to follow, and wondered if it was just her imagination, or if he really had sounded piqued.

: : :

_Heaven hath no rage like love to hatred turned;  
Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned._  
- William Congreve

: : :

'I fucking hate that pillock.'

Harry winced. 'You know, it's really not—'

'_Fucking_ hate him,' Ron interrupted firmly, eyes sweeping the main hall of the Manor as they made their way to the drawing room. 'No wonder he's such a stuck-up little arse. Look at this place, for crying out loud.' He turned his gaze to Harry. 'Can you imagine _living_ here? As a kid, even? I had to share a room with Percy my whole life—well, until Bill and Charlie left, but still.' He paused, shaking his head at a particularly extravagant display of ornamental carving around a wooden post. 'And you grew up in a bloody _cupboard_, Harry. Are you telling me you don't think that this is—that this—'

Speechlessness seemed to be the average response when it came to describing the Manor, at least in terms of comparison to what they considered normal. Harry sighed and looked at the floor as they walked. 'Yeah, I do,' he admitted.

Ron had arrived shortly after Harry finished reassuring Arthur that yes, he was fine and no, Draco had not run off and yes, they did in fact spend the night in the woods, though Harry wasn't quite sure how that had come about. Harry had had to wait by the entrance to the Manor until Ron arrived; he'd sent an owl to Arthur that morning announcing that he had some updated news on the information Draco'd handed over earlier that week.

Meanwhile, when Draco had finally returned with Hermione, Narcissa had swept down on her son with such fury that it reminded Harry vividly of Mrs Weasley scolding her sons for stealing the Ford Anglia back in his second year. Draco made a bold escape into the drawing room, tailed by Hermione, while Narcissa continued to stalk the entrance hall, looking decidedly murderous, for nearly twenty minutes before moving to follow. It had taken another ten minutes before Ron finally arrived, and another ten minutes after that before he'd gotten over the shock and started cursing Draco and all of his ancestors for being unnecessarily wealthy bastards.

'I can't believe you spent the night here,' Ron continued, still looking extremely sour. 'Surprised the bloody house-elf didn't try to strangle you in your sleep. I don't see why we can confiscate Malfoy's wand but his bloody mum is allowed to keep _hers. _She could be just as dangerous as her damn sister for all we know.'

'Part of her amnesty,' Harry explained, shrugging. 'And we can't really leave her unarmed; if Malfoy's a target then Voldemort would likely use her to get to him, wouldn't he?'

Ron shuddered at the use of the Dark Lord's name, but continued to scowl. 'You ask me that as if I give a shit, Harry. If it was up to me, I'd bloody hand him over myself.'

Harry frowned, stopping outside the door to the drawing room. 'You don't mean that,' he said.

Ron stopped as well and looked up at him. 'Don't I?' he snapped sharply.

Before Harry could reply, the door opened. Hermione, looking very harassed, sighed in relief at the sight of them. 'Oh, about time,' she said to Harry. 'He's being a right _bint_ without you here.'

'I heard that,' snapped a lofty voice from somewhere in the room behind her.

Hermione whirled around. 'You were supposed to,' she snapped back, leaving the doorway with a great huff.

Rolling his eyes, Harry followed, Ron trailing along behind him. Narcissa was lounging on a golden chaise at the far end of the room beside the window, ignoring them and staying immersed in the book she held in her lap. Draco was reclining on one of two sofas flanking a small, highly polished coffee table; he'd changed since that morning, and was now wearing dark blue robes that were of a very modish, elegant style with a high collar, boasting silver fastenings that complimented his eyes. He acknowledged Harry's presence with a nod, Harry noted with slight surprise, but then narrowed his eyes when he saw Ron behind him.

'Oh, hullo, Weasley,' he drawled. 'Enjoy the tour? Do mind the carpet, it's likely worth more than your house.'

'Piss off,' Ron spat.

'Lovely to see you, too,' Draco responded. 'How's the eye?'

'Piss off,' Ron said again.

'That well? Spectacular.'

Draco picked up a half-filled glass off the table, downed the remaining liquid and held it aloft as a house-elf appeared and hastily refilled it with a transparent, sparkling liquid. He then gestured at the table and a silver tray appeared, with several empty glasses arranged around an ice bucket boasting a bottle of _Dom Pérignon Rosé_. In the most cordial of tones, he offered, 'Champagne?'

Ron looked as if he was struggling to withhold a third 'Piss off', and possibly a punch, too.

'You really love to rub it in, don't you?' Harry said dryly, taking a seat on the sofa across from Draco. It was some old Italian antique with white and navy silk cushions and a finely carved crest, and Harry perched on the edge of it rather than allow himself to sit back—years of Aunt Petunia harassing him about furniture had been enough to make him automatically treat anything that looked even remotely expensive with particular care.

'Can't say I know what you mean,' Draco replied smoothly, wolfish smirk in place. He lounged on the other sofa—identical, from the looks of it—with the sort of regard one would give a public park bench.

'Oh, wow,' Hermione breathed, though it sounded involuntary. She picked up the bottle of wine and stared at it, eyes widening slightly. 'Is this _vintage_, Malfoy?'

'Ninety-one,' he informed her cheerfully.

She looked to be torn between impressed and scandalised. 'This runs for nearly three hundred pounds a bottle!'

'Fifty-six Galleons, to be precise,' he translated.

She replaced the bottle and, noticing the extreme smugness of his expression, narrowed her eyes at him. 'Oh, sure, go ahead and flaunt,' she huffed, sitting next to Harry.

'Flaunt? This crap?' Draco scoffed at her. 'No, Granger, if you want me to flaunt I'll have Nivens break out the Clos duMesnil_._' He smirked at the expression that comment garnered, and then proceeded to sip the light amber liquid in his glass. 'But that would mean allowing you to _drink_ the Krug, and, in all honesty,' Draco continued after a moment, smirk growing as he spoke, 'none of you are worth a hundred Galleons a bottle, so…' he sat back, wineglass poised in his hand like a delicate ornament, eyes flickering between the three of them. 'Shall we get to work? Or would you like a tour of the wine cellar so you can get those pores of yours _properly_ oozing with envy first?'

'We don't care about you or your stupid fucking champagne,' Ron snarled, making Harry wince again. Ron looked briefly at the empty spot next to Draco, then the sofa on which Harry and Hermione sat. His eyes met Harry's and, bowing his head as a sort of non-verbal agreement, Harry stood up and took the seat beside Draco.

Taking the space next to Hermione while Draco smirked into his champagne, Ron took a thin roll of parchment from within his robes and dropped it on the table beside the serving tray. 'That's what checked out from I.D. this morning,' he said, sitting back. 'Kingsley's running the ops on the confirmed safe houses, but he gave me a copy of the Death Eaters and supporters we don't have anything on. He wants to know if Malfoy can give us anything else, in case Lucius had something on them we don't.'

'Anyone in particular?' Harry asked, unrolling the parchment and scanning the report.

Ron shrugged and shot Draco a nasty look. 'The name "Yaxley" mean anything to you?'

Draco's cool demeanour vanished like a candle blown out. 'You're trying to tag _Yaxley? _The _Italian_ Yaxley? Are you fucking insane?'

'Who?' Harry asked with a blink. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it.

'Signore Gervasio Alessandro Yaxley,' Draco said with a flourish. 'Probably the only wizard alive more pure-blood than I am. He's the unofficial duke of wizarding Britain; or at least, he likes to think he is.'

'What do you mean?'

'What I mean, in short,' Draco said, smirking again, 'is that he has a _lot_ of money.'

Harry raised his eyebrows. This statement, coming from Malfoy, seemed ridiculous. 'More than you?'

'Hah! He wishes,' Draco drawled, looking smug. 'No, Potter, most of my money is lying in a vault, and you're sitting on the rest. Yaxley's wealthier in a capital sense; most of his worth is through interest, debts owed and various commodities. He's the pot of gold at the end of the loan rainbow, if you will,' Draco supplied, when Harry cocked his head in question. 'In other words, he's got half of wizarding Europe in his pocket.'

Hermione was leaning forward in her seat now, elbows balanced on her knees. 'Do you have any reason to believe that You-Know-Who'd be getting money through him?'

Draco shrugged. 'It's highly likely. Good business, war. And he's no fan of Muggle-borns, for sure. Plus, Yaxley is perhaps the only person in the country who is better connected than my father was, though my father was much deeper into the Ministry than Gervasio could ever hope to be. He'd be an ideal supporter.'

'The problem,' Ron interjected, staring at a point over Harry's shoulder in order to avoid looking at Draco, 'as always, is _proving_ it.'

'So you don't know if he's even involved for sure?' Hermione asked Draco. 'Wouldn't Lucius have _anything_ on him?'

Draco shrugged again. 'Gervasio and my father were more like opponents than associates. Gervasio controls people with his money, but my father didn't need it, so they never got on well. I really don't know what you expect me to tell you,' he continued. 'What I _can_ tell you, though, is that pointing a finger at someone like Yaxley without solid grounds is folly. What would you need on him, anyway?'

'Assuming he doesn't have the Dark Mark? Access to his accounts, his books,' Hermione said, pausing to think. 'Anything that would get us access to _original_ records, not the crap he submits to the Ministry during enquiries, really.'

Draco shook his head. 'You'll never get it. You'd have to put him under the Imperius Curse to get access, and even then...' Draco trailed off, looking thoughtful. 'Well, they have ways around that, too. Hex-detectors and such at most vaults these days. You'd need Yaxley there, in the flesh, and willing to give you the information. Which isn't going to happen.'

'Couldn't we just use Polyjuice Potion?' Ron suggested to no one in particular. 'I mean, bugger the bloody rules, if we can just _get_ the evidence, they won't care _how_.'

Draco laughed at him. 'Polyjuice Potion. Genius, Weasley. Really. Because people like Yaxley would never think of that. No, seriously,' Draco continued, looking as if he was refraining from rolling his eyes. He glanced between the three of them, as if hoping one of them would catch on, before sighing heavily. He held out his arm to Harry, who blinked at him. 'Do you see anything on my arm, Potter?'

Harry blinked at him again, then looked at the spotless, midnight blue sleeve of his robes, then back to Draco. 'Is this a trick question?'

'Of course you don't,' Draco went on, dropping his arm and ignoring Harry's stupefaction. 'Because I don't have white-blonde hair that would be _completely_ inconspicuous if it shed onto my robes, or anything, which is the natural human thing to do, last I checked.'

'So why don't you—'

'Because if someone can Polyjuice into me, Potter, and manages to get a copy of my bloody vault key, I'd say I'd be having more than just a few financial issues, wouldn't you?' Draco finally gave in to the urge to roll his eyes. 'There are literally _hundreds_ of charms and spells to keep any sort of personal items that could be used in potions from falling off carelessly,' he explained. 'I had to memorise over a dozen before my father would let me step foot in Hogwarts.' He smirked and added, 'After all, who _wouldn't_ want to be me?'

'We'd need to get close to him,' Hermione said thoughtfully, ignoring Draco's last comment, then shook her head. 'But if he's that cautious about his personal items, it wouldn't make a difference...'

'Right,' said Ron. 'So what Malfoy's saying is, to even accuse someone like Yaxley, first we'd need access to things we can't access unless we Polyjuice into him, and to get the ingredients to do _that_ is impossible…' (Hermione said, 'Ron' warningly but Ron barrelled on), '…so in summation, Malfoy hasn't told us anything useful at all except that it's "folly". And we kept you out of Azkaban, why?'

'If I recall, Weasley, you are the only person I _don't_ have to thank for that,' Draco sneered rather nastily.

'You have me to thank for that busted lip if _I_ reca—'

'If you could get the components you need,' interrupted a cool voice from behind him, 'could you guarantee that Gervasio will be convicted?'

Ron and Hermione both turned their heads to look at Narcissa in mild surprise and Harry squinted at her, slightly perturbed that he hadn't even noticed her leave the chaise and waltz over in the middle of their conversation. She stood poised behind Ron and just off to the side, one hand resting daintily on the finely carved veneer of the sofa's crest.

'Er,' said Ron. 'Assuming we found evidence that he's been feeding gold to You-Know-Who, then yes. We can.' He looked at Hermione. 'We can, right?'

'Yes,' Hermione confirmed. 'If we did—as you said—find proof that he's supplying funds to the other side of the war. That's a charge of treason; a life sentence in Azkaban any way you spell it. Why?'

'In that case, I may be able to assist you.' Narcissa's eyes flickered briefly to Draco, who had quieted at his mother's interruption and was periodically sipping his drink, clearly just as curious as the rest of them as to why she was taking an interest, before coming to rest on Harry. 'Are you familiar with the concept of a debutante ball, Mr Potter?'

'Er,' said Harry. 'A what?'

'A debut ball?' Hermione asked over him, the words clearly holding some meaning for her that Harry had missed. 'Are they anything like the Muggle versions?'

'In the most primitive respects only, I assure you,' Narcissa replied curtly, eyes casting briefly down on Hermione before shifting back to Harry. 'A debutante ball, Mr Potter, is an annual summer event to introduce young, pure-blooded witches into high society. An event that is hosted and arranged by the aristocratic duke of any given country; in this case, our friend Mr Yaxley. An event that, conveniently, happens to be taking place in three days' time.'

'All right…' Harry said, leaning forward. 'How does that help us?'

'Gets us close to Yaxley,' Hermione supplied, catching on. 'I mean, he'd hardly suspect that Aurors would be trailing him at such an event, would he?'

'But how do you plan to get Aurors into that sort of place?' Ron asked, turning his eyes up to Narcissa. 'Most of your pure-blood parties are by invitation only, aren't they?'

'Mm,' she confirmed. 'And fortunately for you, as the wealthiest bachelor in the country, my son has an open invitation.'

Draco gave his mother a look. 'If this is some back-handed attempt to buy me a wife, I'll save you the trouble and say no now.'

'Your lack of interest in granting me grandchildren aside,' Narcissa dismissed smoothly, 'we'd still require a debutante to expand your invitation to include myself. Draco may be able to attend at his leisure, but as a widow I'd have no business at the ball unless it was for the purpose of presenting a young witch to make her debut.'

Draco's eyes narrowed a little; Ron blinked and asked, 'Why would _you_ need to go?'

'Because as my son said before, Gervasio is not a simpleton.' Narcissa removed her hand from the couch and placed it on her hip. 'Even if you managed to get right up beside him, you wouldn't find anything on his person you could take without his noticing it.'

'So what makes you think _you_ can get us anything?'

Narcissa graced Ron with an expression most people reserved for house-elves. 'I do not _think_, Mr Weasley, I _know_. So long as you can find me a witch to present, I can get you what you need.'

'A witch to present?' Hermione repeated. 'Wouldn't she have to be pure-blood and—well—'

'Highborn? Not necessarily. The identity of the girl is unimportant; we can create her image and history easily enough. All that matters is that she's of the right age and is able to _play_ the role of a noblewoman.'

'Could get Tonks to do it,' Harry said reasonably. 'She can disguise herself well enough, and she's a trained Auror, and—'

'And about as adroit as the average sot,' Narcissa finished, her tone deadpan. 'No, dear Nymphadora will not do. I'd require a dextrous girl at least of age, but preferably no older than yourselves.'

Harry ran through a brief checklist in his mind of possible witches that were qualified Aurors, and even Ministry personnel. It wasn't very long, and most of the witches were extremely old; Hermione and Tonks were among the youngest. 'There aren't any female Aurors our age,' Harry told her. 'Susan Bones is the right age, but she's already married...'

'And too well-known among pure-blood families,' Narcissa conceded.

'Pansy might do it.' Everyone looked at Draco, who was staring at the floor with a thoughtful expression. At the resulting silence, he looked up and narrowed his eyes. 'What? She's the right age, and unmarried,' he added, shrugging. 'At least last I heard.'

'Yes, because it'll be much easier for you to escape if you walk into that party without a certified Ministry escort, won't it?' Ron said nastily.

'Half of the people in that party will probably be as keen to kill me as you are, Weasley,' Draco said snidely. 'Maybe if your luck's in order they'll do you the favour.'

'Don't get my hopes up.'

'Enough,' Narcissa snapped, earning a surprised blink from Ron and a quiet, indignant huff from her son. 'It was bad enough with your fathers, I won't tolerate any ruffian behaviour in my household.' Harry dimly noted her wording of _my household_ and that Draco did not bother to correct her. 'I believe it's more than obvious at this point that my son has no intentions of violating his agreement, and it would be in his best interests to cooperate,' she added, with a sharp look at Draco.

'Ask Pansy to do it, then,' Harry put in. 'I mean, if it's just to get your mother in, she wouldn't be in any danger anyway. If it means cutting off one of Voldemort's—'

Narcissa flinched and closed her eyes, and one of her hands jumped to her temple, as if she'd gotten a sudden headache; Ron shuddered just slightly, and Draco cursed and nearly dropped his glass.

'Will you _quit_ with the name,' he ground out through gritted teeth, glaring at Harry.

'All right, but even _if_ Parkinson agrees to do it,' Ron said, recovering and looking up at Narcissa, 'and assuming we somehow got the operation approved, tell me: how do _you_ plan to get what we need without Yaxley noticing? I mean, what makes you think you can pull it off better than a trained Ministry agent?'

Narcissa cast her eyes on him for a moment, then glanced briefly at Draco, before looking away and giving the merest of shrugs. 'To save you from the details, let's just say that Gervasio and I share... a rather _intimate_ history.'

There was a short pause, in which Ron and Harry blinked, Hermione's eyebrows shot up into her bushy fringe, and Draco actually _did_ drop his glass.

'I'm sorry,' Draco said slowly, ignoring the appearance of a house-elf to clean up the mess. 'What?'

'Er,' Ron said, flushing and shifting uncomfortably. 'Well. That's—you know, we don't need you to...'

'Oh, it's quite all right, Mr Weasley, I assure you.' Narcissa smirked, ignoring the look of impetuous fury on her son's face. 'You could say that I'd be more than _happy_ to assist you in the matter.'

'Excuse me,' Draco said sharply, sitting forward and glaring up at his mother. 'It most certainly is not all right. What the bloody hell do you mean, _"intimate history"_?'

'Kindly don't take that tone with me, Draco,' she replied smoothly, looking remarkably unconcerned by the dark look in her son's eyes. 'You are not a child anymore, and it would be advantageous for you to refrain from acting like one.'

Narcissa turned back to the three of them, once again ignoring Draco, who was clearly furious at being addressed in such a way in front of company, his mouth forming a sharp snarl. Harry was quickly learning that Narcissa was, much like Molly Weasley tended to be, a no-nonsense woman when it came to her offspring. 'Wizarding dukes have always exercised a traditional sort of control over the families within their reign, very much like feudalism, in fact,' she began, pausing to let them absorb this information before continuing. 'This includes the promise of patronage in exchange for certain privileges.'

'Privileges?' Hermione asked.

_'Privileges?'_ Draco demanded.

'Mm.' Narcissa appeared to be choosing her words very carefully, and she kept shooting warning looks at Draco, who, in his ever-increasing outrage, was beginning to look more and more like Lucius with every moment that passed. 'In the interest of being forthright,' she began, 'let me say that, in short, Gervasio reserves the right not only to grant warrant on all legal unions that take place under his jurisdiction, but also the prerogative to... _christen_ the bride of any marriage he so chooses.'

Hermione blanched, and Harry was fairly sure he had too. After a few extra seconds, realisation set in for Ron, who then proceeded to gape at Narcissa.

'That's bloody barbaric,' Ron blurted.

'I didn't know things like that still went on,' Hermione said quietly.

Draco was massaging his temples with his fingers methodically. 'Are you telling me,' he said slowly, 'that Father allowed that sonofa—'

'Naturally, there is an alternative to such practices,' Narcissa said dismissively. 'If you have enough gold, there always is... those that can afford to buy their brides' fidelity are able to do so, and Lucius had indeed paid his dues for my integrity. However...' She smiled faintly. 'I regret to say that there's no judicious way to phrase this, but Gervasio is a man who takes what he wants—much,' she added, with a hard look at Draco, who seemed to be cemented with shock at what he was hearing, 'like your father was.'

'Are you saying he—' Ron began, eyes widening.

'Did _Lucius_ know?' Hermione asked over him, a bit breathlessly.

'If he had, do you really believe Yaxley would be around to cause you grief today?' Narcissa asked, and Harry knew the answer was unequivocally _no_. In fact, judging by the look in Draco's eyes, if Draco had known before now, the answer would also be an unequivocal _no_.

'No,' she confirmed lightly, 'my husband remained blissfully unaware to his grave. I was just a girl at the time, you understand, and did not want any blood shed on _my_ account.' She smirked. 'My views on the matter have since changed dramatically; you could say I consider this both a way to remunerate the leniency you extended towards my son, as well as a means of requital.'

'Bugger that,' Draco said simply, as he stood up to face her. 'You won't bloody need to do anything, because I'm going to kill him.'

He said this with such calmness and certainty that, inability to do the deed against Dumbledore aside, Harry found he believed him.

'Sit down, Draco,' she said serenely. 'Despite what you'd like to believe, you won't be having a say either way.'

'The hell I won't.'

'Draco,' she began warningly.

'No,' he snapped over her. It was worse than watching Ron get defensive about Ginny; until now, Harry had not noticed that Draco was actually taller than his mother—not by much, but he was standing so close to her now that the three-or-so inches difference was suddenly apparent. '_No_. No sodding way in Merlin's bloody beard—'

'You have no authority over what I choose to do—'

'—you're my bloody _mother—_'

'—and you would do _well_ to remember it,' she finished firmly.

'Father would never have allowed it,' Draco snarled.

'Your father isn't _here_, Draco,' Narcissa said, her voice lowered dangerously. 'And now I have done my duty both to him and to you. For twenty years I've bided my time, waiting for reprisal, and I'll be damned if you or your father have any say on the matter.'

'Then you'll bloody well be damned!'

Draco had not shouted until this point, but it seemed Narcissa had finally hit a nerve. If Harry, Ron and Hermione hadn't winced at the volume of his voice, they did shortly thereafter, when the bottle of _Dom Pérignon_ suddenly exploded, spraying the three of them with champagne.

This seemed to remind mother and son that there were, in fact, other people still in the room; Narcissa raised her chin slightly and Draco bristled, swore loudly, and sat heavily back down on the sofa. Nivens appeared with a _crack_ and began cleaning the champagne off the furniture while Hermione charmed it off all their robes.

'Apologies,' Narcissa said sweetly, indicating the mess. 'My son isn't normally prone to such outbursts, but I think we've said all that needs to be said here.' She looked briefly from Ron to Harry, eyebrows raised. 'So, Mr Weasley, Mr Potter—do we have an accord?'

Harry fidgeted. Draco wasn't looking at him, he was glaring at the floor, but the sharpness of his expression was dangerous. 'Are you sure about this? I mean, technically, you're not obligated... I mean, we'd love to get Yaxley, but you don't have to. You know.' He paused. 'Do anything.'

'I understand that, Mr Potter. As I told you before, I would be more than happy to be of service.' The words _of service_ were delivered with a salty undertone that caused Draco to make a convulsive motion with his fist, nearly breaking another glass. Narcissa continued without losing a beat. 'That is, as I said before, if you can find me a young witch to present.'

Ron looked at Harry, who shrugged. 'If it gets us Yaxley...'

'Kingsley would be all right with it,' Ron agreed. He chanced a look at Narcissa, then Draco. 'D'you think Parkinson would do it?'

Harry looked at Draco, who was glaring up at his mother. She was returning the look, and the silent visual battle continued for several long seconds before Draco, sensing defeat, looked away.

'What do you think, Malfoy?' Harry asked him. 'Would Pansy be up for it?'

Draco glanced sideways at him, then looked away and shrugged. 'Only one way to find out.'

: : :

Thanks to Draco's information and the quick work of the Inquisitorial Department, Kingsley had arranged the first raid to take place that very evening. Harry and Ron Apparated back to the Ministry with Arthur, while Remus remained with Hermione at the Manor. Since he wasn't a Ministry employee, Remus did not have to take shifts at the Manor, but he insisted on helping as a member of the Order, and Hermione personally thought it was good for him. Although he was less outspoken than Sirius had been about spending so much time at Grimmauld Place, she could see he was enjoying the change of atmosphere.

Despite the shabby robes and the werewolf issue, Narcissa seemed rather fond of him; they'd apparently been on very good terms during their time together at Hogwarts and even after that, through Sirius, until the First War had started and torn the Black family apart. Hermione supposed Narcissa had been just as lonely as Draco had over the years, and from the growing tension exhibited by her and her son, she supposed that four years was a long time to spend with anyone, even close family; Narcissa was probably glad for the company of someone closer to her own age.

Of course, this left Hermione to contend with Draco on her own for most of the afternoon, as Remus and Narcissa had gone off on a tour of the gardens and not returned for hours. It wasn't as bad as it could have been; Draco was still silently brooding over the argument with his mother that morning, and hardly spoke to her at all. Hedwig dropped off a letter from Harry mid-afternoon informing her that he and Ron would likely be on duty until well past midnight, and she would therefore be spending the night at the Manor alone with Remus to keep an eye on Draco.

Lovely, she thought bitterly. Draco was in his room collecting his cloak; it was after teatime now, a time when Pansy was sure to be at home. A very fluffy, white cat with mismatched eyes was prowling down the corridor as she waited, and she crouched down and offered her hand to it. It rubbed its head under her hand and purred appreciatively.

The half-ajar door to Draco's room suddenly slammed open and the cat _mrowed_ in agitation before sprinting down the hall. Frowning, she stood up and glared at him. 'Was that really necessary?'

'I hate cats,' Draco said by way of explanation.

'The feeling seems to be mutual.'

'I'm sure it is.' He swung his cloak over his shoulders and fastened it around the high collar of his robes. 'Are you ready, then?'

As I'll ever be with you, she thought bitterly. 'Yes,' she said, putting her hands in the pockets of her own cloak. 'How're we—'

'Apparating would be easiest.' He glanced at her and made a face. 'We'll have to do it Side-Along, though, since you've never been there.'

'And where, exactly, is "there"?' she asked.

'Yorkshire,' was all he offered.

By the time they'd reached the gate to the estate, the sun was beginning to set. The two massive stone dragons standing guard outside cast large, ominous shadows over the pair as Draco halted and held out his arm. His nose wrinkled slightly as Hermione took it with her own. Side-Along Apparation was similar to taking a Portkey—only instead of an object, you were using another person to get to your destination. After the dizziness faded, Hermione surveyed her surroundings with a slow blink.

'Er, Malfoy,' she said, eyeing the rather run-down row of houses bordering the street. 'Where are we?'

Draco started off down the deserted walkway before answering; she was tugged along, still attached to his arm. 'Just outside Bradford.'

Hermione balked. 'Bradford? She lives in _Bradford?'_

Draco stopped, dropping her arm, and turned to look at her, eyebrow raised. 'Despite what you may believe, not all pure-bloods are well-off. Just look at your dear Weasleys.'

'But—' she spluttered, moving to catch up with him as he continued walking, '—after all of the grief your lot gave Ron—'

'There's a difference between being poor and being trash, Granger,' Draco said sharply without looking at her.

'Ron's not—'

'Pansy's an only child,' Draco said, cutting her off. 'And the Parkinsons are, as far as I know, still better off financially than the Weasleys, who have more children than most stray dogs.' He looked sideways at her as she opened her mouth to berate him. 'I'm not even trying to be cruel, you know, I'm just being practical. It's bloody idiotic to have so many children when you can't even afford their schoolbooks every term. Here.'

He stopped outside one of the many homes that, in the dark, looked particularly foreboding. It was two-storied but squat, with dark windows and chipped paint along the porch. The yard looked horribly neglected and Hermione jumped as a small dog came running up to the gate when Draco opened it. Upon further inspection, she saw it was actually a Crup; similar to Jack Russell terriers, but with forked tails, Crups were one of the few pets that wizards could keep in the presence of Muggles without arousing too much suspicion.

The Crup barked sharply, but in a friendly manner, and jumped up on Draco's knee as he closed the gate behind her. 'Go on,' he said, and the Crup stood down but continued to run in circles around them as they made their way up the walkway, Draco with his hands jammed in his pockets and Hermione trying to conceal herself behind him. She hadn't seen Pansy Parkinson since Hogwarts, and was not sure how the girl would react to seeing Hermione standing on her porch, with Draco Malfoy of all people.

'Were you two, you know,' Hermione asked suddenly, but quietly, 'together? At Hogwarts.'

Draco didn't look at her. 'For a while.'

'What happened?'

Draco gave her a long, sideways look, but didn't answer. Instead, he knocked sharply on the door. The Crup barked again; the moment the door opened, he rushed through the small opening, and Hermione could hear him yipping inside the bowels of the house. A withered, thin woman with wiry, dark grey hair had answered the door. She had a sharp chin and short face, and Hermione recognised her eyes; she must have been Pansy's mother. She gaped when she saw Draco.

'Mr Malfoy,' she said quietly, recovering. 'What a... pleasant surprise.' She looked him and Hermione over once, quickly, but did not ask them inside.

'Evening,' Draco said politely. 'Listen, Julie, is Pansy—'

'Yes, yes, she's here,' Mrs Parkinson said quickly. 'Just a mo'.' And she disappeared back into the house, closing the door. Almost immediately Hermione could hear the sound of someone thumping down stairs at high speed, and then the door opened again. She barely registered the dark hair and slightly pudgy face of Pansy Parkinson as she stormed out of the door and slapped Draco harshly across the face.

Draco didn't recoil, but took the assault, perhaps thinking he deserved it. 'Hullo, Pansy,' he said dryly.

'Don't you _hullo_ me,' she snapped, not even noticing Hermione. 'What the _hell_ are you doing here? Are you trying to get me killed?'

'On the contrary,' Draco said, stepping back a little. 'I've actually come to ask a favour.'

'A _favour?'_ Pansy stared at him, and then suddenly laughed, short and sharp. 'I would as soon do you a favour as gnaw off my own hand.' Looking to the side, she saw Hermione, and bristled immediately, turning her glare back to Draco. 'You brought _her_ here? The _Prophet_ said you'd made friends with Potter, but _this filth?_ And now you bring it to my door?'

'Pans—'

'No,' she said sharply, backing up and shaking her head. 'Whatever it is, I don't care. The answer is no.'

'Will you just—'

'No, I will not _just!' _she snapped at him. 'You think you can just vanish for a few years and then drop by whenever you need something from me?'

'It's not—'

'I was in _love_ with you!' she shrieked. Hermione noted with surprise that her eyes were watering, and Draco winced. 'I was in love with you, Draco,' she repeated, her voice lower. 'And you just disappeared—I thought you were—' She stopped and collected herself quickly before Draco could interrupt. 'No, Draco, I'm done. No favours. No _nothing_. If they find out you've been here—if _He_ knew—you have to leave,' she said. 'Right now.'

'I'm sorry,' he said, a bit weakly. He looked extremely uncomfortable all of a sudden. 'And I know—I don't want to cause any trouble. But will you at least hear me out before you—'

'No,' she said again, firmly. She was in the doorway now, one hand on the doorknob. 'It won't matter, the answer will be the same. I can't have anything to do with you. You were just protecting your family, and now I'm protecting mine.' She paused and Draco opened his mouth, but she continued over him, 'I'm sorry, Draco. But no. Now go, and take your Mudblood filth with you.'

Draco winced again as she slammed the door in his face without ceremony. Heaving a heavy sigh, he stared at the closed door for a few moments longer, then turned around abruptly and faced Hermione. He was looking her over, head to toe, as if considering something very carefully. Then he abruptly looked her in the eye.

'So, Granger,' he said casually. 'I don't suppose you know how to tango?'

: : :


	7. Chapter Six: Brimstone and Fire

Chapter 6  
**Brimstone and Fire**

_Aim for the gutter and you can't miss._  
—David Wands

: : : : :

Okay, so Dad was a Death Eater.

Whatever. No problem.

_Big deal._

All right, perhaps it _was _a big deal. Still, there wasn't much Draco could do to change it. Besides, he mused, his father had never taken a wrong step before. Maybe it was one of those 'adult' issues that, he was frequently reminded, he was still too young to understand. Personally, he thought that excuse was a load of waffle, but it was the most comforting idea he had to hold on to at the moment. His father had not brought up the subject since Draco had fled to his room that fateful evening, and the one time Draco had the bollocks to ask about it, he'd been shut down with a simple but firm 'It's none of your concern'.

So, Draco knew about as much as everyone else did about the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Last term he'd witnessed, along with everyone else, the end of the third task; Potter and Diggory made it to the Cup, vanished for a suspicious amount of time, and then eventually reappeared outside the maze. The only difference being that now, Diggory seemed to be dead.

That night, Draco had been the first one to suggest 'Potter killed him for the Cup!' but nobody seemed to be eager to listen to him. At the end of term, Dumbledore had treated them all to an enigmatic speech about how the Dark Lord had returned and conveniently rigged the _entire _Tournament just to capture Potter, murdering Diggory in the process. Somehow, though, You-Know-Who seemed to have forgotten the part about killing _Harry Potter_, the one he had rigged the entire Tournament for in the _first place_, and had then, rather than immediately resuming his reign of terror and chaos upon returning from his thirteen-year vacation, mysteriously gone into hiding.

Draco was very relieved, on returning to Hogwarts for his fifth year, to find that he wasn't the only one who found this sorry story extremely dodgy.

Sure, he now knew for a fact that Voldemort had returned; he'd seen him having tea with Father in the library. But even armed with this knowledge, Draco thought there were some very large, suspicious holes in the series of events that had supposedly transpired. Rumours were still flying high, and thanks to the _Prophet _and the talented quill of one Ms Skeeter, Harry Potter was finally being shown in his truelight. Served him right, Draco thought. It was about bloody time.

This was the first of many good things to occur. Draco had also been made a Prefect, obviously a rare stroke of brilliance on the Headmaster's part, no doubt abetted by ample pressure from Professor Snape, whom Draco had decided was singularly the best professor Hogwarts had ever had.

This position was severely jeopardised, however, by the arrival of Professor Umbridge, with whom Draco soon found he had much in common. For one, she hated Harry Potter; Draco liked the potential this woman held. Second, she noticed what an utterly brilliant and responsible pupil Draco was; Draco approved. Third, she made Potter's life even more of a living hell, which in turn made it even easier for Draco – on top of being Prefect – to fulfil the vengeful oath he'd made the moment Potter had refused his hand at the beginning of their first year, which was to make Potter very, very sorry; Draco was beside himself with blissful glee.

It was perhaps the best year at Hogwarts Draco had ever had.

...until that bit where Potter did an interview for _The Quibbler_, and fingered his father as a Death Eater.

Draco paced the length of his room methodically, over, and over, and over again. It was one of the many spoils of being a Slytherin Prefect: a private room, king-sized bed, several of his very own wardrobes, many over-sized mirrors that showered him with compliments, and a very generous fireplace. If Draco had known rooms like this existed in the Slytherin dormitories, he would have bribed his way into one _years _ago.

His room, usually kept immaculately clean and relatively neat through the efforts of Hogwarts' house-elves, was now in complete ruin. Several mirrors were smashed, the bed hangings lay in shreds, two wardrobes had been knocked carelessly on their sides, pieces of spare parchment fluttered around the room whenever a cool breeze entered through the crack below the door, and the fireplace looked as if someone had chucked a cauldron of Dungbombs down the chimney.

Draco continued to systematically pace through the wreckage, looking for something else to destroy. His _Nimbus 2001_ stood off in a lonely corner, shiny and unscarred, became a tempting target.

_No, _he decided solemnly. He would not destroy his own broom. He would not gnaw off the black polish until it became a serrated, splintery instrument that he would then use to roger the Speccy Boy Wonder. After all, the broom had done nothing wrong. It was not the broom's fault that Harry Potter was such a selfish, arrogant, _ignorant_, miserable, nosy, GoodForNothingAsininePillock, no more than it was Draco's fault that his father was a Death Eater.

Speaking of a certain GoodForNothingAsininePillock, thatwas something that definitely _was _at fault, and proved to be a much more appealing target for his destructive urges.

Draco exploded out of his room and down the hall without bothering to close his door. His Intent To Kill was apparently evident in his demeanour, because as he stormed through the Slytherin common room, he vaguely heard someone go 'Uh-oh'.

'Oh, bollocks.' That was Pansy. 'Draco, wait.'

He ignored her, his beeline for the door unwavering.

'Draco!' He continued to ignore her. The door was only ten feet away; one door closer to sweet, soothing, perfectly reasonable, cold-blooded _murder_.

_'Draco Abraxas Malfoy_, stop this instant! Oh, ye Gods, Zabini! Grab him!'

With the sort of luck Draco had come to expect after years of narrowly missing the Snitch to a bespectacled blur atop a Firebolt, Blaise Zabini chose that moment to walk through the portrait hole. Blaise was not a close friend of his; just another fifth-year Slytherin accomplice that came in handy when attempting to undermine the ego of a certain Speccy Pillock whom Draco was on his way to disembowel. A plan that, unfortunately, was currently being impeded by the aforementioned Slytherin, who may not have possessed the raw brute strength of Crabbe or Goyle, but was certainly bigger than Draco at any rate.

Blaise reclined against the back of the portrait, creating a formidable obstacle, unperturbed by Draco's _Avada Kedavra_ glare. He was a good six inches taller than Draco, and more solidly built; he didn't play Quidditch, but Draco had figured the boy had to practice _some _sort of physical activity, and upon inquiring casually some years ago, he had discovered that this physical activity happened to be professional swordplay. It was this fact alone that stilled Draco's immediate desire to grab a pointy object and jab it in Blaise's solar plexus.

Despite his newly instated ground rule of never becoming involved in intimate relationships with those he shared a living area with, Draco had, on more than one occasion, entertained the thought that Blaise was spectacularly attractive for a guy; occasions no doubt encouraged by his father's severe warning about illegitimate procreation that previous July. Blaise's dark, curly hair, high cheekbones and olive skin gave him a handsome-yet-haunted sort of look as he stood in the darkness of the doorway, returning Draco's glare with an inquiring eyebrow—just for good measure, Draco was sure, because he had a feeling Blaise knew _exactly _where Draco was planning to go, what he was planning to do, and to whom, and could probably venture an accurate guess at his chosen method, too.

'Having another tantrum?' Blaise inquired mildly.

'Get out of it, Zabini,' he snarled, trying to slip by.

Blaise boldly held out an arm, leaning it against the doorframe, blocking his escape. 'Oh, come on, Malfoy. You're going to make Parkinson cry.'

Draco glared at him. 'So?'

'So, I really don't feel up to the noise, as some of us actually prefer to _plot_, rather than skip off in rash attempts to eradicate certain Gryffindors and get ourselves expelled.'

Draco considered this, and then decided he didn't care. 'Piss off, Zabini.'

Blaise shrugged, conceding. 'Your funeral.'

_'Zabini_!' That was Pansy again, this time directly behind Draco. He felt her latch onto his elbow with both hands. 'Draco, darling, really, this is notgoing to help anything.'

'Oh, I think it might,' Draco snarled, trying with very little success to worm his way out of her vice-like grip. 'It will help in that I will never have to look at him again if he's dead!'

'Draco,' she said reasonably, 'killing Potter is not going to make the article disappear.'

'Perhaps not,' he replied, turning to face her. 'But it _will _make me feel a hell of a lot better about it!'

The portrait hole opened again. Theodore Nott and Daphne Greengrass surveyed the scene with dubious looks over Zabini's shoulder, as he was still blocking most of the entranceway.

Draco greeted Theodore with a cheerful smile. After all, his father had been named along with the others, and although he was of the quieter variety, even Draco did not step on Theodore's toes, for he had been put into Slytherin for very good reasons; Draco had not forgotten what had befallen that poor Hufflepuff that tried to saunter off with his girlfriend the previous year, nor the fact that Theodore had never been caught.

'Evening, Nott. Fancy joining me on a mission to slaughter the Boy Who Lived Only To Die A Most Painful Death?'

Theodore did not smile, but raised his eyebrows slightly and gave a curt nod. 'Sounds good to me.'

'Oh, honestly!' Pansy said, conjuring such a vivid image of That Mudblood Granger that Draco slapped her hands off his arm in disgust.

Daphne seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Pansy, however, and she moved to intercept Theodore's path, arms folded and glaring at her boyfriend. Draco had to admit that even with her nose pinched like that, she still looked very pretty.

'Theo, we justwent over this.'

Not very empathetic, though.

'I've changed my mind,' Theodore declared.

Draco suddenly wondered why he had never been closer friends with the boy before. He clearly had his priorities straight: Murder, now. Sex, later.

'You'll never make it through their portrait hole,' Pansy reasoned.

'Not without being pelted by Weasels and Mudbloods and other unsanitary things,' Daphne piped in.

'You'll be expelled,' Blaise reminded them cheerfully.

'I can live with expelled,' Theodore said.

'So can I,' Draco informed them, adding, 'quite happily.'

'Can you live with being pelted by Weasels?' Daphne asked.

Draco and Theodore exchanged looks. They rarely talked, were automatically polite to one another, but he was no closer to being a friend to Draco than the portrait that guarded their common room. However, both hailed as scions of very prestigious, pure-blood wizarding families, and both had fathers that had turned out to be Very Important Death Eaters. Although this had never mattered before, it made some sort of a difference now, as they inexplicably communicated something wordlessly in that glance alone and said, together, 'I've had worse', before making for the door.

Ten minutes later, after much scuffling, cursing, shouting, and all-out hell-raising, Draco was securely pinned to the common room sofa by Vince and Greg, and Theodore was being held down in an armchair by Daphne, who apparently had astonishingly strong legs for a girl.

'Piss off,' Draco said irritably for about the fortieth time that evening. Vince and Greg exchanged guilty looks and ignored him.

Pansy sat across from him, on a black chaise with Zabini, surveying both would-be murderers with cold, dark brown eyes. 'You're both acting very immaturely, you know.'

'We're both really not caring,' Draco said. Theodore grunted his agreement.

'You know,' Blaise said slowly, 'storming out of here on a crusade, wand blazing, is a very un-Slytherin thing to do. It's more something that a—'

'Zabini, if you want to keep your testicles, you will _not _finish that sentence,' Draco snarled.

'—a psychotic, over-emotional teenager like yourself would do,' Blaise compromised, rolling his eyes.

'Potter sold out your fathers too,' Draco reminded his captors sourly, ignoring Blaise. 'You have every reason to want kill him. Let me go and I _promise _I'll save you some leftovers.'

'Stop trying to corrupt them, Draco,' Pansy reprimanded as the two lugs exchanged glances again, possibly considering that Draco had a point. 'Won't it be more gratifying to destroy Potter in some sly, much subtler manner than an onslaught of Killing Curses across the corridor?'

'Who said anything about Killing Curses?' Draco snapped. 'I am going to nail that self-proclaimed martyr to an inverted cross, erect it on the pitch, rip his skin off one strip at a time, and roger him with a splintery broomstick for the entire school to see.'

'Nice imagery,' Blaise remarked.

'Thank you,' Draco said politely. 'Now you lot piss the bloody well off.'

'No, I don't think so,' Daphne said sweetly. 'I'm comfy.'

'My knees are numb,' Theodore remarked, 'because your arse is fat. Get off.'

'Her arse is lovely,' Pansy countered when Daphne looked mildly offended. 'We'll leave off when you two get yourselves out of your stitches. It's what _friends _do.'

'It's what _women _do,' Draco corrected her. Now he could fully appreciate his father's sentiments about how if the world empires had been predominantly based on a matriarchal system, there would be far less war—and what fun would _that _be? Being pinned to the couch did nothing to keep him riled up, and he could feel the adrenaline slowly but surely leaking out of his system. 'Even in Slytherin, the girls are pansies.'

'That was a horrible pun, Malfoy,' Blaise said, grimacing.

'It wasn't meant to be a pun! It was an insult!'

'But we're pretty,' Daphne said, casting him a million-dollar smile.

'And so are you,' Pansy added to Draco, as he had opened his mouth to protest again. 'You don't want to ruin your complexion by going near greasy Gryffindors.'

'I'll be a lot prettier with his brains splattered all over my robes!' Draco shouted, lunging forward only to be yanked back by Greg, who let out an exasperated sigh.

Blaise shook his head, looking like he was trying not to laugh. 'You have a very unhealthy obsession with that Potter bloke.'

'The only "obsession" I have with Potter is a need to see his _blood_.'

'Kinky. Is that before or after you—'

'Besides,' Pansy interrupted, elbowing Blaise as he dissolved in silent sniggers, 'there are much more ingenious ways to release tension, darling.'

Draco gave her a very hard, narrow look. 'And what would you propose?'

'Virgin sacrifice?' Blaise prompted.

Pansy rolled her eyes. Theodore, taking a moment away from arguing with Daphne, said, 'Yeah, if all our birds weren't tarts.'

'Potter's probably a virgin,' Draco said suddenly, looking thoughtful. 'We could sacrifice _him_.'

'I told you,' Blaise said to Pansy, who was looking as though she'd resigned herself to the fact that Draco's attention was not to be so easily diverted. 'He's hopeless. Why bother? Let him go, he'll get the stuffing Stunned out of him and learn a lesson.'

'You're working your way up my list, Zabini,' Draco said warningly.

'This isn't very productive,' Pansy admitted, slouching. 'Being your friend is extremely tiring at times,' she informed Draco sourly.

'Friends don't pin friends to couches,' Draco growled.

'No,' Blaise agreed, smirking. 'Real friends help hide the bodies.'

'You are _not _helping,' Pansy said stiffly.

Blaise put on a pensive look. After a moment, he grinned. 'Orgy?'

'An orgy would work,' said Pansy, looking thoughtful.

'I—what?' Draco, unwillingly diverted, glared at Blaise, who winked at him. 'Are you trying to distract me from homicide with sex?'

'Yes,' Pansy, Daphne, and Blaise chorused.

'You know,' said a young, unfamiliar female voice somewhere behind Draco, 'there are _first-years_ in this common room.'

'The more the merrier,' Blaise said.

'Everyone's invited,' Daphne added.

'Some friends you lot are,' Draco muttered crossly, sulking.

Just then, a terrified-looking first-year clambered through the entrance to the common room, tripping over her robes as she scrambled over the threshold trying to balance her bag in one hand and carefully clutching a letter in the other. Her dark eyes darted around the room, fell on Draco, and she trotted up to them, trembling and looking like she would very much like to be elsewhere. The fifth-years were regarding her much like a pack of lions regarded their cubs over a freshly killed meal.

'T-this is for y-you,' she stuttered, quickly thrusting the roll of parchment at Draco. 'Professor S-snape gave it to me.'

As both of Draco's arms were pinned to the sofa, Pansy reached over and plucked the letter from the girl's grasp. Blaise snapped his teeth at her and ,with a terrified squeak, the girl whirled around and ran down the stairs to the girls' dormitories. Pansy gave him a withering look. He shrugged, grinning. 'At the beginning of term, Greg told all the first-years I was half-vampire. Have to keep up appearances.'

'Oh,' Pansy said after taking her eyes off Blaise long enough to look at the letter. Her eyes raised to Draco, then to Vince and Greg. 'Let him go,' she commanded and, after a quick glance to make sure the other was complying, they released his arms. Before Draco could bolt, however, she thrust the letter at him. 'It's from your father, Draco.' She looked from him to Theodore, Vince and Greg. 'It's addressed to all four of you.'

The smirk slid off Blaise's face and Theodore's eyes narrowed slightly. Draco was staring at the letter as if it might very well explode and Vince and Greg both exchanged looks again. Draco stood up, took the letter, and with a quick jerk of his thumb, ordered Daphne off Theodore's lap.

'Dorms,' Draco said tersely, eyes sweeping the other three. 'Now.'

Even Theodore, never one to be ordered around like a dog, didn't bother to argue.

: : : : :

'I'm sorry,' Hermione said after a moment. 'What?'

'You know,' Draco said, moving away from Pansy's door to stand before her. He held out his arms and did a few staccato movements with a quick head snap. He executed the moves so nimbly and fluently that she missed most of it with a blink. '_Tango_.'

She stared at him. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his cloak, cocked his head, and patiently waited for an answer. Even for a girl as quick as Hermione, it took another moment for what he was asking of her to entirely sink in.

'No,' she answered firmly, shaking her head. 'No, no, no, no, _no_. I absolutely do not know how to tango, and I will be very happy to never learn, and I swear to Merlin if you keep grinning at me like that, Draco Malfoy—sod the Ministry's code of conduct—I _will _hex you.'

: : :

By the time Ron arrived on the scene that evening, chaos had already erupted.

The raid was supposed to be simple; Draco had pinpointed a modest, abandoned warehouse just south of Edinburgh that was playing host to a small group of Death Eater recruits. Mostly young, inexperienced idiots fresh out of various schools—Durmstrang, mostly, though some were bound to be recent Hogwarts graduates—that were gathering around, plotting random terrorisation of Muggles and so forth; hardly a priority mission, but at the same time, an easy one. Or at least, they'd assumed so.

'Sweet Merlin Jesus Mary Bloody Christmas!' Justin fell back against the wall, nearly crashing into Ron. 'It's about time you lot got here—there's got to be at least fifty of the bastards. Where the _hell _is Harry?'

'Coming!' Ron snapped back, irritated. The last owl they'd received from Kingsley had said 'No rush, make sure you have something for tea, it'll be a long night.' – so naturally, they had, and Harry had stopped back at his flat to make sure Dobby hadn't shut his ears in the oven before coming along, so he was a few minutes behind Ron.

It wasn't as if Harry's presence should have made that much of a difference; aside from Justin and Ron, it was just Kingsley, Tonks, Moody, Proudfoot and Dawlish at the scene—hardly a threat to fifty Death Eater-wannabes, even teenage ones. But something about Harry's presence had an effect on Dark wizards; his survival of tribulations with the Dark Lord had earned him one hell of a reputation, and on more than one occasion, Ron had witnessed perfectly able Dark witches and wizards surrendering at his wand point without a fuss.

The street lamp above them exploded and they ducked, hands covering their heads to protect against the broken glass. 'Bloody hell!' Ron checked his watch; ten minutes... he should be there any—

'POTTER! About bloody time!'

Kingsley's roar carried over the shouts of their targets, attacking from the north, and there was an odd pause in the shower of curses being hurled their way—Harry must have Ported to the safe point, just around the corner and out of sight from where Ron and Justin stood crouched behind a small alley wall.

Sure enough, Harry's answering shout followed. _'What?' _There was another crash, the sound of yet another street lamp exploding, then, 'Fuck! You said this would be a cinch op!'

Ron could hear Kingsley's gruff laugh. 'I lied! Get your sorry arse up here already! These kids want an arse-kicking, and I intend to give it to them!'

Ron looked at Justin, who rolled his eyes. Some people had simply too much fun with this job.

'It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye,' Justin muttered, reading his expression.

'They'll be lucky if that's all they lose. C'mon.'

'Yeah,' Justin agreed, following him towards the warehouse through the winding alley that provided the only cover. ''Cept Harry. He never gets hurt.'

The proverb 'spoke too soon' came to mind about two and a half hours later, as they stood in the lobby of St Mungo's, waiting for a room to open. Harry's injury wasn't life-threatening, so they were in the queue like everyone else, and the lobby was still brimming with patients. Tonks was weaving her wand in complicated patterns above Harry's bloody arm, trying to slow the bleeding while they waited.

'If you say "I told you so",' Harry forced out through gritted teeth, 'I'm going to shove my wand somewhere unpleasant.'

Ron grinned at him. 'No need, Hermione will say it enough for the both of us when you get back.'

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but swore loudly instead. Tonks rolled her eyes. 'Well stop movingand it won't hurt so much. How on earth—honestly, Harry, you need to be a bit less reckless. Gawain is going to have your _head _for this, especially after that scene in Aberdeen. Honestly, if you were anyone else, it'd have cost you your badge by now.'

'If he was anyone else,' Ron repeated, smirking.

'Hey, it worked, didn't it?' Harry snapped defensively. 'Ow! Dammit, that stings like a—'

Of course it had worked, Ron thought. Harry's plans always seemed to; tonight it had been 'send the Patronuses in first to scatter the bastards, follow those with an onslaught of Stunning Spells in every direction, send in more Patronuses and then run in to pick off the stragglers'—which was a fine plan if there were an even number on both sides. It was a little less than safe when they were outnumbered ten to one.

But it _had _worked—mostly; Justin's second Patronus hadn't been quite corporeal, and several of their targets weren't befuddled by the mist, and poor Justin nearly got six Stunners to the chest. Harry's Shield Charm had protected Justin, but it had left Harry himself open for attack, and he'd been hit in the forearm with a nasty curse of some sort before the other Aurors had stepped in to Stun the remaining wizards. Moody couldn't identify it, reckoned it was some newly developed Dark Magic, and had told Harry to have McGonagall look at it. In the meantime, his wand arm was shattered and bloody and completely useless.

'It's always this arm,' Harry muttered. 'D'you realise that? Shattered by a bewitched Bludger, lost all its bones to bloody Lockhart, bitten by a Basilisk, sliced open in the graveyard, and now hexed to bits by some idiot in a mask. It's bloody—' he hissed deep in his throat as Tonks finished threading another magical stitch, '—cursed.'

Ron tried to look sympathetic. He wasn't grinning. Really. 'Tough luck, mate. At least you're off duty until they figure out how to fix it.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Oh, joy, more time with Malfoy.'

At the mention of Malfoy, Ron grimaced. 'Better you than me.'

'He's not _so _bad,' Harry said thoughtfully. He winced as Tonks began threading another magical stitch through the wounds on his arm. They'd tried every other field-aid magic they knew, but so far, the stitches were working best at keeping the lost blood to a minimum. 'I mean, he's grown up a bit,' he continued offhandedly, shrugging. Ron snorted, which made Harry smirk. 'A very, very tiny bit, mind you. 'Course, that could just be because without a wand, he's probably worried we'll all hex him into oblivion.'

'Which I've already considered doing on more than one occasion,' Ron agreed grimly. 'I feel bad for Hermione, being stuck there all night.'

A weird, lopsided smile appeared on Harry's lips; Ron raised his eyebrows and Harry let the smile grow and said, 'To be honest, I'm not sure who I feel worse for; her, or Malfoy. You should have seenthe way she handled him at the Ministry. The look on his face...' Harry laughed shortly. 'She'll be all right. Hermione can take care of herself more than you give her credit for.'

'Oh, right,' Ron said, rolling his eyes. 'I have one word for you: Bulgaria.'

'Yeah, well,' Harry said quickly, 'you're not supposed to _know _about Bulgaria, are you?'

'No, but you're a mate, so I do,' Ron said smugly. Harry was giving him a look, the sort he gave Dark wizards, daring them to make a move, and Ron rolled his eyes again. 'I said I won't let on, and I won't. Stop looking at me like that. Gives me the bloody creeps.'

'You better not.' Harry's fist clenched and Tonks slapped his hand, so he let his palm fall open again. 'She'll bloody kill me if she finds out I told you.'

'Well, look on the bright side,' Ron said, sitting next to him as Tonks indicated, and taking hold of Harry's elbow to hold it down. She had the ends of several threads hovering in midair, and Harry closed his eyes, set his jaw, and waited for it; Tonks snapped her wand away, tightening all the stitches with a quick jerk, and Harry's forearm jumped under Ron's steady hand, but he didn't make a sound. Ron waited half a second before finishing, 'Least now that Malfoy's around, you can use him as a human shield.'

'Tempting,' Harry admitted after a moment. He sighed heavily as Tonks, with a casual wave of her wand, cleaned the dried stains off his arm and wrapped it in a towel to absorb the fresh blood while they waited. 'Bugger this,' he muttered. Then, as an afterthought, said to Tonks, 'Thanks.'

'No worries,' Tonks said brightly, going to talk to the receptionist again, because Harry's arm was stillbleeding through the stiches.

'Oh, and I was meaning to tell you,' Ron said, leaning back in his seat. 'Ginny sent an owl the other morning. I completely forgot because of the whole deal with Malfoy, but—' he smiled, '—she made the team.'

Harry nodded, then blinked as the information sank in. He glanced sideways at Ron, who was smirking. 'She's on the _team_?'

'Bypassed reserve,' Ron confirmed, shaking his head. 'You should have seen Wood. He was all aflutter about how if he'd known Ginny could fly that well, he would have had her on the team her first year. She's apparently better than Ange now.'

'Hell,' Harry said, shaking his head.

'They still want you, you know,' Ron remarked casually. 'Wood said—'

'The answer's the same,' Harry said firmly.

'I don't understand you,' Ron said, exasperated. 'You used to _live _for flying.'

'I still do,' Harry said defensively. 'I just have more important things to do. I still _do_,' he insisted at the sceptical glance Ron gave him.

Ron raised an eyebrow. 'When's the last time you were on a broom?'

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it.

'Uh-huh,' Ron said. 'And when's the last time you touched your Firebolt, except to move it out of the way?'

Harry still didn't answer.

'Right,' Ron went on. 'Anyway. We're going out tomorrow night to celebrate it. You know, just the guys.'

'And Ginny,' Harry reminded him.

Ron shrugged. 'She's one of the guys, Harry.' Harry snorted but didn't comment. 'Anyway, you should come. You haven't been out since bloody Malfoy came waltzing into the Ministry.'

'I have other things I need to—'

'Fred and George said they're going to come kidnap you,' Ron warned him.

Harry furrowed his brow. It wasn't an empty threat; he knew that as well as Ron. 'What about Malfoy? I can't ask Hermione to stick with him two nights in a row.'

Ron thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. 'Bring him.'

Harry turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. 'You want me to _bring _him?'

'Sure, why not?' Ron said, shrugging again. 'I'd rather be drunk than sober around him anyway. Besides,' he added with a smirk, 'Fred and George'll be the end of him.'

Harry shook his head. 'They will,' he agreed. Then, after a moment: 'Yeah, all right. I'll ask him.'

'You'll _tell _him,' Ron corrected him. 'Or the lot of us willmarch to your door and drag you out.'

'Where are we going?'

Ron flashed him a grin. 'With Fred and George, do you even need to ask?'

Harry laughed. 'No, I suppose not.'

: : :

'I _told _you,' Hermione said fiercely, sweeping down on Harry the moment he stepped through his door the next morning.

Like Luna, she and Ron had open access to his flat, so he wasn't surprised to find her there. 'It's fine,' he said, making a mental note to hit Ron the next time he saw him and turning so his injured arm was out of her reach. 'Where's Malfoy?'

That distracted her from his injury. She made a face and jerked her head in the direction of the living room. 'Watching questionable things on the television,' she told him. Her eyes snapped back to his arm. 'Well?' she demanded. 'Did they find out what it was?'

'Just some curse, it's the same as I said in the owl,' Harry said, shrugging. 'What? It'll be fine in a couple of days. At least they got it to stop bleeding. Anyway, how'd the thing with Pansy—' His face fell at her expression. 'Right, I'll take that as a no. So we need to find someone else.'

Hermione twisted her hands in the hem of her blouse and bit her lip. 'Well, we, ah, might not have to.'

'Pansy might do it?'

'Well, no, Pansy won't,' she admitted. She looked at the floor and took a heavy breath before looking back up at him. 'Draco,' she said, 'thinks that I should go in her stead.'

'_Malfoy_, Granger,' came the irritated voice from the living room.

Harry blinked at her. 'You? But you're—I mean, not that it's a bad—but you're—' He sighed. 'You know what I mean. Muggle-born.'

Hermione opened her mouth to reply just as Draco strode into the room and started talking over her. 'Unless you know a pure-blood woman the right age—that we can _trust_—that isn't prosaic or a terrible actor, then I really don't think we have a choice.'

Harry blinked at him. So did Hermione.

'You don't think I'm prosaic?' she asked.

'Generally, it's not considered complimentary to be the last choice,' he reminded them cheerily.

'_Anyway_,' Hermione said firmly as Harry opened his mouth to reprimand him, 'now that you're here, Harry, I really need to get to the office and get this whole thing approved.'

'Tomorrow,' Draco reminded her. 'Eight o'clock. Sharp, Granger.'

'Yes, yes,' she said irritably. Then, muttered to Harry, 'Good _luck_.' And with a snap, she Disapparated.

Draco was eyeing his injured arm with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. 'Let me guess,' he said slowly. 'Your idea?'

'Fuck you,' Harry said, turning down the hall with the intent to shower, ignoring the snickering at his back.

: : :

Draco was surprisingly easy to entertain; he'd never seen a television before coming to Harry's, and for once, Harry was glad he'd let Ron talk him into getting cable. It was more than enough to keep him occupied for the majority of the day, while Harry alternated between finishing the paperwork for the previous night's raid, resting his arm, and napping to make up for lost sleep.

At half past nine that evening, Harry gave Dobby some Muggle clothes to take to Draco's room, to which the blonde had retired after tea. Fifteen minutes later, he knocked sharply on the door. There was a quiet pause, muffled shuffling, and then the door opened a slit, revealing dark, steely eyes. 'What?'

'We're going out,' he said.

Draco blinked at him through the crack in the door. 'We?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'We. And we're walking, so—' he gestured at the clothes Dobby'd left on the bed behind him, '—put those on.'

Draco's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Where are we going?'

'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'Just get changed.'

'Why can't I go in robes?'

'Muggles'll see you.'

'So?'

'So,' Harry said, 'unless you'd like me to drag Hermione back over here to outline exactly wherein the agreement it says you have to listen to me, I suggest you just do it.'

Draco made a face and, after a thoughtful pause, closed the door in his face.

'Put those on,' Harry reminded him through the door.

There was a mute pause, and then Harry could hear the rustling of clothes from inside. Satisfied, he went to Floo Ron to let him know they'd meet them all there as soon as Draco was ready. About five minutes later, Draco came sauntering down the hall. He was wearing the jeans, but had left on the white button-up shirt he'd been wearing under his robes instead of putting on the shirt Harry'd supplied.

'What?' Draco demanded at his blank look. 'You expect me to wear that horrendous thing you call a shirt in public?' he sneered. 'I'd rather wear the stripes.'

Before Harry could reply, Draco turned into the bathroom and locked the door.

Fifteen minutes and a lot of arguing later, Harry unlocked it with a quick _Alohomora_. 'What the hell is taking you so—'

Draco cast him a sideways glance as he trailed off and stared, looking as if the effort pained him considerably. 'Yes?'

'I,' Harry began, then stopped and frowned.

Draco's eyes lingered on him a moment then rolled, turning back to the mirror. 'I said five more minutes.'

The broken eye contact snapped Harry out of his stupor. 'You said that five minutes ago,' he said. 'And five minutes before that.'

Draco tilted his head to the side in the mirror. He had, surprisingly enough, managed to shave sans magic without cutting himself. 'Do you have a point, Potter?' he said finally, eyes still on his reflection, brushing his hair aside with a backward motion of his hand. 'Or do you just like to watch?'

'If I wanted to watch, Malfoy, you wouldn't know I was here.' Harry smirked as Draco looked back at him, blinking. 'We're just going _out_, not to a bloody soirée. Let's go.'

'Well if you remember, you failed to specify exactly what "out" encompasses,' Draco pointed out. 'Anyway, just because _you _go out looking like a banal pillock doesn't mean I'm going to.'

'As opposed to going out looking like a right stiff.' Harry leaned against the doorframe, watching Draco continue to attempt to perfect his appearance wandlessly. 'We're going out to meet Ron and some of the others,' he continued casually. 'Ginny made it into Puddlemere, so they wanted to have a night out, and they coerced me into going.'

The ministrations paused again; Draco had turned his head back to look at him. 'She made it into _Puddlemere_?' For a startled moment, Harry thought Draco might actually acknowledge her—a Weasley's—accomplishment. Draco shattered that possibility, however, as he turned back to the mirror and muttered, 'Merlin help us, England's really going downhill these days.'

'Does being a git come naturally to you?' Harry asked nastily. 'Or do you have to make an effort?'

'Insulting a Weasley hardly takes effort.'

'Then perhaps you should put an effort into refrainingfrom it,' Harry said. 'As you're about to spend the evening with half of them, and I don't think they'll take kindly to you insulting their little sister.'

'The hell I am,' Draco snapped, pausing again. 'It's not in the agreement that I have to attend your fucking social gatherings.'

'But it _is _in the agreement,' Harry countered, 'that you're under my direct supervision. You go where I go.'

Draco gave him a long, hard look. 'You're mental if you think I'm subjecting myself to that.'

Harry shrugged. 'Suit yourself. I guess Dobby can babysit you, if you like. Anyway,' he added with a smirk, changing tactics, 'I suppose you don't want Ron to drink you under the table, so...'

'Piss off,' Draco snapped. 'Weasley couldn't _afford _to drink me under the table.' Then, as an afterthought, 'Neither could you.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'You sound awfully sure of yourself.'

'That would be because I am, Potter.'

Harry tossed him a jacket; Draco caught it on reflex. 'Then put your money where your mouth is, Malfoy.'

: : :

The Ashwinder was a fairly small establishment, as far as bars and clubs went, and it was open to wizards and Muggles alike; sober Muggles didn't believe in magic happening before their eyes, so drunk Muggles were certainly no trouble, and the bar owners liked the extra revenue. Harry carefully omitted this piece of information, assuring Draco that it was, indeed, a place run by wizards—which was strictly true. Fred and George favoured the place because it was close to Diagon Alley, and the bar owner was an affiliate of the now very popular Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. The 'for every ten Galleons at WWW, get a free drink!' campaign had worked out so well for both businesses that Fred and George and any guests they brought along always got in, no matter how crowded the place was. Harry didn't really care for the noise, but it was still nice to get out and away from work once in a while.

Even if he had Draco tagging along behind demanding, 'Where the hell are we going? Are we there yet?' every two minutes.

'Here,' Harry said, stopping outside a small, black door. They were on a street just around the corner from the Leaky Cauldron and it was already dark outside. Draco wrinkled his nose at the state of the door before pushing it open and stepping inside, Harry following. Almost immediately, he was assaulted by a loud noise level and a large amount of colourful lights. Draco made a face at the elaborate display that was the dance floor, but Harry led him aside, deeper into the building and away from the groups of young people clustered together.

The bar was in the back, in the same room but slightly separate from the rest of the club. Ron was already there, hand around a bottle of lager and sitting on a high stool, along with Fred and George, both of whom were wearing their green dragon hide jackets. They grinned as Harry approached, and Fred hooked an arm around his shoulder, pointedly ignoring Draco and dragging him over to the bar.

'Good to see ya, Harry,' said Fred.

'Were getting worried about you,' George added.

'Were about to come fetch you ourselves,' Fred finished.

'Yeah, sorry,' Harry said, casting a glance over his shoulder. 'Had to drag _somebody _away from the mirror.'

Ron snorted. 'Still looks like a ferret to me.'

'Bit surprised you came yourself,' Draco remarked. 'I'd be right ashamed to show my face in public looking like I had a full-on case of dragon pox.'

'Where's Ginny?' Harry asked, before they could get going.

Fred all but forced him into a seat between him and Ron. 'Probably still in the bathroom.'

George smirked. 'Yeah, you know how birds are,' he said, with a deliberate look at Draco.

Draco's eyes flashed; Harry saw his hand twitch and, not for the first time, considered that it was probably for the best that Draco didn't have access to his wand. It was fleeting, however; Draco's lips formed a nasty smirk, and he smoothly gave them all the finger before slipping onto the stool on the other side of Ron without a word.

Turning around in his seat so Draco couldn't see his face, Ron raised his eyebrows at Harry, who shrugged. If Draco was going to be a prick and sulk, let him.

Ten or fifteen minutes passed in cheerful discussion between Harry and the Weasleys; Fred and George were always fun to talk to, and it was a bit of a relief to be around them again. Harry had never realised how much he enjoyed their company until they'd left Hogwarts. The pair of them were like a shining light in the gloom of war, a way to still have fun when the occasion called for it. Then Ron argued with him for a good five minutes about whether the Chudley Cannons were better than Puddlemere while Fred ordered them another round of drinks.

Draco kept to himself in stony silence on the other side of Ron. He'd gone through three Firewhiskys already and was now sitting with his back to the bar, elbows balanced on the bench. Neon hues played across his face and hair while lazy eyes stared out at the mirage of colours that constituted the dance floor.

Harry didn't notice he was staring until Draco's eyes flickered sideways and he raised an eyebrow. 'Plastered already, Potter?'

Before Harry could answer, a familiar voice snapped, 'Oh, you brought _him_. Joy.'

Harry looked up at Ginny. Aside from the nasty expression, she looked very pretty dressed in a short, strapless teal dress, her flaming hair worn down and falling around her shoulders.

He shrugged. 'Have to keep an eye on him.'

'Believe me, it pains me more than you,' Draco said callously, giving her a generous once-over.

'Congrats about the team,' Harry said absently, ignoring Draco's remark; Ginny could handle herself well enough, and had made it quite clear she did not enjoy being defended.

She smiled at him, but he could tell it was fake. 'They still want you, you know.'

'Yeah, I've heard,' Harry said, shooting a sideways look at Ron, who shrugged apologetically.

'Honestly,' Ginny said, smile fading. 'I'm half inclined to think the only reason I got in the tryouts was because they thought I was still dating you.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'I bet he _loved _that.'

Almost on cue, a very tall, blonde bloke appeared behind her, one arm casually draped around her shoulders, a beer in the other. He nodded curtly at Harry. 'Potter.'

It was Harry's turn to wrinkle his nose. 'Smith,' he responded shortly.

Draco raised his eyebrows but didn't comment, turning his eyes back to the dance floor as Ginny and Zacharias took seats by Fred and George. Ron said, 'I'll be back' and went to join them.

Harry was about to turn back around when a young woman with short, bubblegum-pink hair emerged from the crowd. She was dressed in low-slung, black dragon hide slacks, a pink tank top that matched her hair, and a large pair of black boots.

'Wotcher, Harry,' said Tonks.

'Hey,' Harry said. 'I thought you'd be with Lupin.'

'Remus,' Tonks chided him. Harry grimaced. 'Oh, you should get used to it already,' she said lightly, picking his drink up off the table and helping herself to it. 'Anyway, he's a bit... busy tonight.' Her eyes scanned the group at the bar, coming to rest on Draco. She slipped into Ron's old seat between the two. 'Hullo, Draco.'

Draco gave her the courtesy of glancing at her, but made it look as if the generosity pained him. An up-and-down flicker of his steely eyes said, quite clearly, that she was not worth his time of day. 'Sorry,' he drawled, 'who the hell are you?'

'Oh, right,' Tonks said, handing Harry his drink back. She pinched her face up, scrunching her nose, and with a soft _pop _she changed; long, mousy brown hair that fell past her shoulders replaced the pink spikes, and Harry realised with a jolt that looking at her face was like looking at Narcissa, roughly a decade younger—except for the hair and eyes; large, round and brown instead of blue. Draco's jaw dropped. 'Better?' she offered.

'You—' he began, then stopped himself, closing his mouth. '_You_,' he said again, sounding awestruck. 'But I thought you—'

'Went to Salem and stayed there? No, unfortunately, that's just what Lucius wanted you to think. Couldn't have you investigating long-lost cousins that turned out to be half-bloods, big disgrace to the family name and all, yes I know,' she answered a bit bitterly.

With another soft _pop _the pink Tonks was back and she offered him a hand. 'Tonks.'

Draco looked at her for a long moment; her hand held steady, patiently, and Harry noticed a small pinch in-between his eyebrows. Finally, Draco took her hand. But instead of shaking it, he turned it over and raised her knuckles to his lips. 'Charmed. You look just like your mother.'

'So I've been told,' she said with a smile, taking her hand back. She glanced at Harry and then back to Draco again. 'So have you two been getting on all right?'

'We're alive, aren't we?' Harry said sardonically and raised his eyebrows. 'Why do you ask?'

'People at the office were taking bets,' she said. Draco, midway through his next drink, choked on it. 'I'm kidding,' Tonks said, smirking. 'But after half the stories I heard about you two at Hogwarts... ' She shrugged. 'I didn't expect to see you hanging out in a bar, that's all.'

'We are not "hanging out",' Draco cut in. 'I was dragged along against my will.'

'Kicking and screaming,' Harry added. Draco snorted, picking up another Firewhisky. Harry frowned at the empty glasses already cluttering the table around his elbow and said, 'How many of those have you had already?'

Draco downed the shot easily and tossed it on the counter. 'Not nearly enough.'

'In that case,' Tonks said brightly, turning around and hailing the bartender, 'let's have another.'

: : :

Ron sagged against the person on his right. He felt as if they'd been here for only fifteen minutes or so, but the large collection of empty bottles and glasses suggested otherwise. Harry had wandered off with the twins some time ago and had not returned, and Ron was feeling bored, disgruntled and slightly worried by their absence.

'What time is it?' he wondered aloud. He felt whomever it was he was leaning on shrug and sighed, turning the other way, and prodded the person to the left of him. 'Oi, Gin. Times'it?'

Ginny surfaced long enough to throw him a cold look over her shoulder. 'Excuse me, _Ronald_. I'm a bit busy.'

'Just because I'm pissed doesn't mean you can snog my sister in front of me,' Ron informed the hazy image of Zacharias with a threatening finger. Ignoring the 'Oh, _grow _up' from Ginny, he continued with, 'What bloody time it is?'

'Half past, you pushy git.'

'Half past what?'

'_One_. Get a watch.'

'What's the matter, Weasley?' came a slightly slurred drawl in his right ear. 'Past your bedtime?'

Ah, so _that's_ who was on his right. Lovely. 'Piss off,' Ron snapped.

With an upturn of his lip and a flash of teeth, Draco spun back around on his stool, turning his back to Ron once more. Tonks lit up a cigarette on the other side of him and, after a puppy-dog pout, she handed the fag to Draco and fetched herself another one. Ron wrinkled his nose at the smell, turned back around, and was met with the sight of Ginny trying to eat her boyfriend's face.

Damned on both sides, Ron slid off his stool and went to find Harry.

: : :

'You have a lot of tattoos,' Draco noted. This was done with some difficulty, as, after a shot of Firewhisky for every other birthday he'd survived, in addition to a strange Muggle margarita Tonks had made him try, everything was blurred around the edges. The neon lights, loud music, and fast-moving bodies nearby on the dance floor were all making him feel extremely dizzy.

'I only have four,' she protested, pinching her nose at him and taking another drag of her cigarette. There was a pronounced slur to her words, but nonetheless she ordered another margarita.

'Four?' Draco squinted at her; she had a Celtic-looking vine-like symbol tattooed just below her collarbone, a ring of Latin words around her right upper arm, and (he knew from when she'd turned around earlier) a phoenix on her shoulder blade. But, unless his drunken state had taken him beyond the capacity to count, that only made three. 'Where's the fourth?'

She made a face at him. 'Not in a place I normally display to the general public,' she informed him, sipping her drink. 'D'you have any?'

He smirked at her. 'One.'

'Bollocks.' She raised her eyebrows, surprised. 'Prove it.'

He raised an eyebrow in return. 'What's in it for me?'

She smirked and leaned forward, lowering her voice as she said, rather casually, 'You show me yours and I'll show you mine.'

'All right. Let's see yours then.' She raised an eyebrow and he quickly added, cordially, 'Ladies first.'

'Pfff,' she said, sliding off her stool. 'Don't try that gentlemen act with me. I knew your father and I _know _your mum and you, sir, are a right blighter if ever I saw one. However,' she continued in a dignified tone, standing up straight with her chin raised, 'I am very curious to see this tattoo you claim to have, so, be a chap and hold this.'

She handed him her margarita, which he finished for her while she held her fag between her lips and turned so her right side was facing him. Then, using both hands and what appeared to be a considerable amount of effort, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her dragon hide trousers, and attempted to tug the edge down.

'Attempted' being the operative word.

He burst out laughing at her—oh, gods, he was losing his poise already. 'You want some help with that?'

'Bugger off,' she said, hopping in place, and he could see the purple strap of a thong stretched across her thumb as she tugged. She managed to yank the edge down enough to expose her hip and the very top of her thigh, on which there was a twisting black mark.

He squinted and leaned forward, bracing one hand on the bar to keep himself from falling off his seat. 'Is that a _snake_?'

'Serpent!' she corrected him, managing to stretch the leather down another two inches or so, exposing the body of the oriental-style reptile curling down her thigh. She grinned up at him from her bent-over position, wavering dangerously. 'Isn't it pretty?'

The cigarette bobbed in her lips as she spoke. Draco reached over, plucked it out of her mouth and lifted it to his own. 'How far around does that go?'

She snorted at him and hiked her trousers back up. 'Wouldn't youlike to know?' She plucked the fag out of his mouth mid-drag, making him cough, and finished it off herself before flicking the butt aside. 'Now,' she said as he finished coughing, 'let's see yours.'

Giving a disgruntled sigh, Draco undid the first two buttons of his shirt, spun around on his stool and said, 'Tug back my collar.'

He felt her fingers brush the back of his neck, her nail snagging the chain he wore as she pulled the shirt collar down, until her fingertip was poking between his shoulder blades. 'Ooh, classy,' he heard her say. 'Very sexy. What's that mean?'

He shrugged his shirt back into place as she released his collar. 'I'll tell you sometime you'll actually remember it.'

'Mmmmmm, okay, but!' she said, snagging his hand as he turned back around and dragging him off his stool. 'Only if you dance with me.'

He gave her a very hard look; this was admittedly more difficult to accomplish than it was sober. 'I'm bloody surprised I can standon my own and you want me to _dance_?'

'You _can _dance,' she said, waggling a finger at him. 'Can't you?'

'Of course I can dance,' he declared, perhaps more loudly than was necessary. 'I am a Malfoy. These things come with the package.'

'Spiffing,' she said, smiling, and began dragging him towards the dance floor. 'Then you can teach me how, come on.'

Perhaps if he were sober, he could have thought up an acceptable excuse not to—or at least, put up a better resistance. 'Why do I have a feeling I'm going to regret this?'

She looked over her shoulder at him, smiling brilliantly as she tugged him into the crowd. 'Because you probably will. Come on!'

: : :

Ron found Harry trying to arm-wrestle Fred with his uninjured arm, with George in-between them pulling faces, trying to make one or the other lose focus. Harry was easily stronger than either of the twins, but Weasley men had always harboured their alcohol extraordinarily well, and thanks to this, Fred was putting up a decent effort.

'Come on, Fred, that's not even his wand arm! Give it a good twist, go on—oh bloody hell, mate,' George said, rolling his eyes as Harry flattened Fred's arm on the tabletop. 'He's sloshed _and _handicapped. That's just sad.'

Fred was massaging his wrist gloomily. 'I'm getting weak in my old age,' he declared.

'You need to start wrestling Dark wizards like Harry.'

'I don't "wrestle" them,' Harry protested, but he was grinning. 'I've just been... practising.'

Fred snorted. 'With who? Hagrid?'

Harry laughed. 'Kingsley, actually.'

'You're working out with Kingsley?' George said, laughing too. 'I take it back, Fred, you've nothing to be ashamed of.'

'Might have said something beforeyou broke my wrist,' Fred grumbled.

'You're getting soft, sitting around in that shop of yours,' Ron informed them, slipping into an empty seat beside Harry.

Harry looked at him once, grinned, then slumped forward on the bar on his left elbow, idly spinning an empty shot glass. The bartender, further down the bar serving a group of extremely giggly Muggle girls, waved his wand and a bottle of whisky floated off the shelf and refilled the glass; the Muggles, naturally, were too drunk to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Harry gave the bartender a half-hearted, two-fingered salute in thanks. Ron raised his own hand and a shot glass plopped itself on the counter and was quickly filled by the same bottle. Harry raised his glass to meet Ron's in a lazy and badly aimed 'Cheers' before draining it. When he turned to lean his back and balance his good elbow on the bar, Ron noted he was slouching slightly, his eyes had a healthy glaze and he was wearing that sneaky, lopsided smile Harry got when he was either keeping you in the dark, or was far too drunk for his own good. Considering the twins' ability to fill anyone with their fair share of alcohol twice as fast as should be legally allowed, Ron was willing to bet it was the latter.

'You know what I need,' Harry said suddenly.

'A day off?' Ron suggested.

'No, no, no,' Harry said, shaking his head far more than was necessary to get the point across.

He didn't keep talking, so Ron assumed he was supposed to continue guessing. 'To get laid?'

'No,' Harry said, shaking his head again. Then he blinked and furrowed his brow. 'Well. Yes, actually.' Ron snorted. 'I'll get back to that. What I need,' he said again, 'is to convince Robards to allot us a portion of Headquarters' budget. Would make this job _so _much easier.'

Ron rolled his eyes. 'Oh, is that all? I think you'd have better luck getting laid, mate.'

'Meh,' Harry said, sulking. 'I suppose I could always bully Malfoy into it.' Ron choked on his drink. 'I meant the _gold_, you git. Speaking of that pillock,' he said slowly, peering around, 'where is he? You didn't kill him when I wasn't looking, did you?' Ron grinned. '_Did _you?' Harry asked again, laughing.

'Unfortunately, no,' Ron admitted. 'Tonks has been keeping him occupied, oddly enough.'

'Well, they're cousins, aren't they? Maybe she knows a trick we don't,' Harry said through a yawn. 'Bloody hell, what time is it?'

'Almost two.'

Harry thought about that, then shrugged. 'It's not like I have to work in the morning.'

'Lucky you,' Ron remarked. 'But you still have paperwork to turn in.'

'That can wait,' Harry said dismissively. Ron rolled his eyes. 'It can wait' meant it would never get done, or at least, not very well—not that Ron himself was any better. 'Have to go back to the Manor tomorrow, for that bloody ball op. Did Hermione tell you—'

'Yeah, she told me,' Ron said, frowning.

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'And?'

'And what?'

'You didn't even tryto talk her out of it?'

'Why waste the breath?' Ron muttered. 'She'll only do it anyway.'

: : :

_Sometimes I wonder, as I look in your eyes  
That maybe you're thinking of some other guy_  
- Foreigner

: : :

'Oh come on,' Draco whined. Actually _whined_. In _public—_this really should have bothered him more than it did. 'You know you wanna.'

'What I wanna,' Tonks announced with a fabulous slur, 'is'ave 'nother fag. 'Fore I fall down. I 'ave nu idea how you drink so much an' then—' she made wild, swirly motions with her hands, '—spin an' spin an' spin round an' not fall down.' She gave him a slow, deliberate prod in his chest with her finger. 'S'not fair. _Bastard_.'

'I can hold you up?' he offered. It had been her idea to come out here in the first place, but now that they had, he was enjoying the break from being surrounded on all sides by nasty glares and sneers at the bar. 'I can hold you up, and then we can both spin and spin and spin around, until all the pretty colours become one and we can't tell which way is up anymore. C'mon, it'll be _fun_.'

'Nu,' she protested, shoving him off. She nearly fell, but he caught her around the middle again. 'Nu,' she declared again. 'I will be sick all over an' thar'll be nu more pretty colours. I need a _fag _an' a _coffee _an' _you_, sir, will notcoerce me—' she made the wild, swirly motions again, '—inta spinnin' about,' she finished, holding up her poky finger again, 'any—' _poke_, 'more—' _prod_. 'I am an off-duty Minishtry offishal, and I shan't be mingly with you.'

'But,' Draco protested. 'But, then who will spin around with me? You can't leave me out here _alone_. I'll get lost.' He pouted at her. 'You don't want me to get lost, d'you?'

Tonks, whom he still had by the waist to keep her from swaying, appeared as if she were struggling between a desire for a fag and the very pouty look he was gracing her with. 'But,' she said mournfully, 'I wanna fag.'

'Have one, then,' said a silky voice to Draco's left.

Draco's head snapped up, and for a fleeting moment, he thought Harry had come to find them—only these green eyes were more hazel; two olive orbs with flecks of bright amber and gold in the middle glinted at them around heavily dilated pupils.

Draco was briefly impressed with his attention to detail, even while pissed, before he realised that the only eyes he knew that well were Harry's.

The stranger was taller than Harry, too, and had a head of dark brown, curly hair. His sleeves were rolled up and Draco could see he had heavily tanned skin, several tattoos extending down his forearms, and an eyebrow piercing—and Draco thought, for half a second, that the guy was a Muggle—but there was the smooth shaft of a wand behind his ear, protruding from the curls. After looking him over for several moments, Tonks took the proffered fag. Draco helped her stand up straight as she lit it with her wand and took a puff, and then let out a happy little sigh.

'Why don't you go have that coffee,' the stranger offered. He was looking at Draco while he spoke. 'I'll look after him for you.'

'You,' Tonks said in a loud, happy voice, 'are an _angel_. And see that you do, I like him very much.' And with that declaration, she gave him a generous kiss on the cheek, and stumbled in the vague direction of the bar.

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'That was the most unoriginal pickup I've ever seen.'

'Maybe,' the stranger said, shrugging. 'Did it work?'

: : :

'Anyway,' Ron continued, 'it was rather hard to argue with her, what with Ginny running in circles waving her Puddlemere contract in everyone's faces and rambling hysterics. Besides, you'll kill him if he tries anything, so no worries, right?'

'Cheers,' Harry said, downing another shot.

'How many are you at?' Ron asked, indicating the empty pint glass on the bench.

Harry squinted, apparently doing mass calculations in his head. 'Less than Christmas, more than my last birthday. I think?'

'That all?' Ron asked, deadpan.

'Ran outta gold,' Harry said, missing the sarcasm. 'Prolly for the best, I need to be able to walkhome. _And _watch Malfoy.'

'Shame,' Fred said sadly on the other side of Ron.

George appeared over Harry's shoulder, finishing, 'We were hoping he'd get sloshed enough to start cast us another Patronus.'

Harry frowned while the three of them broke into grins, and Ron could hear Fred laughing over his shoulder. 'That was _priceless_. All the Muggles thought they were hallucinating.'

'"Did anyone else just see that big ruddy deer run by?"'

'"It's a ghost! This place is haunted!"'

Unable to keep a straight face, Harry finally gave in to laughter at their spirited imitations of the Muggles' reactions to seeing a ghostly stag galloping through the dance floor. It hadn't been as funny to actually witness; at the sight of a corporeal Patronus, most of the witches and wizards present had near-panicked, thinking Dementors were infiltrating the club, looking for traitors. After that little ordeal, Ron had vowed never to leave Harry, the twins and alcohol together and unsupervised in public ever again.

'Anyway,' Fred said, still wheezing. 'We're heading home, got an early meeting with a client in the morn'. Evening, gents.' And with two simultaneous _cracks_, the pair disappeared.

'Speaking of home,' Harry said, recovering, 'I'm bloody knackered. Where's—oh, there's one,' he said, as Tonks came sauntering up to them.

She stumbled as she made it to the bar, and Ron quickly hopped off his stool and caught her. 'Had a bit much, have you?'

'Pfff,' Tonks informed him. 'You're lucky you're so tall. I'd slap you if I could reach.'

'You're welcome,' Ron said, grinning and helping her into his old seat. 'Where's Malfoy?'

'Draco is a _very _good dancer,' she informed him, squinting mournfully at the butt of her cigarette. 'An' a very good drinker. An' 'as far too much money. His _shirt _cost more'n my _broom_, which is _so _unfair. Snarky little fucker. D'you know he 'as a tattoo?'

'He has a tattoo?' Harry asked, looking mildly interested.

'Where is he?' Ron asked again.

'Uhm,' Tonks said thoughtfully. 'I think. Lost. Maybe. I don't know. Kidnapped? Knew I shouldn'ta left him with that bloke. I'll go find him!' she offered, hopping off her seat and promptly falling over. Luckily, Harry's lap was between her and the floor, and they were able to right her again without any major injuries being sustained.

'I think you've had enough for tonight,' Ron said. Harry was too busy laughing at her to agree, but tossed his glass back on the bench and stood up. Ron was relieved to see that he managed to do so on his own. 'Here, Harry, help her outside, I'll go find that idiot.'

'You sure?' Harry asked. 'He might give you a hard time.'

'What's he going to do without a wand?' Ron asked.

'Irritate you to death?' Harry suggested, grinning. With Ron's help he looped one of Tonks' arms over the shoulder of his good arm while she tried to convince them she was more than able to walk on her own, thanks very much, she was just more in the mood to crawl at the moment.

Ron rolled his eyes. 'I can always Stun him if I have to.'

As Harry helped Tonks outside, Ron turned his attention to the dance floor, sighing. Even at past two in the morning on a weekday, it was buzzing with bodies, wizard and Muggle alike, most of them around his own age. The club really _did _need to expand, or at least relocate to larger premises, he thought grimly, squeezing his way between the odd groups and couples squashed together. One advantage to being of the taller variety in the Weasley family, however, was that it made finding people easier—and after six years of doing his best to avoid him in advance, Draco's white-blonde head was an easy beacon to locate in the frenzy of bodies and neon colours. Draco would be in the middle of the all the activity, he always was, because he was a fucking attention whore.

Upon reflection, what Ron found when he got within full view of Draco was not, perhaps, that much of a surprise.

At the moment, Draco had his front facing Ron but was completely oblivious to his presence. His attention was occupied by the bloke his back was pressed against, a man slightly taller than Draco and swarthy, hands balanced on Draco's hips and nose buried in the blonde hair falling around his ear. Draco tilted his head back against his shoulder just as the bloke leant down, eyes not quite closed, until their noses were touching. They stayed like that for a moment, frozen in motion, until one of the bloke's hands came up to Draco's jaw, and Draco's hand curled up and around the back of his head, and the stranger closed the small distance and kissed him full on the lips.

Draco seemed to be briefly overwhelmed by the force of the kiss before leaning in, and Ron saw a flash of tongues connecting between their mouths as Draco twisted around for a better angle. Ron hesitated, his determined impulse to grab Draco and leave briefly shunted aside by this display of intimacy; not because he cared about Draco's rights, but because he'd been raised to look away from these things, and patiently wait for himself to be acknowledged. It would be _rude _to interrupt—he could hear his mother's and Hermione's voices berating him already, waggling their index fingers with reproving looks fixed on their faces.

But then there was his own little voice, waving a finger back, pointing out that Draco had been nothing _but _rude to all of them his entire life, and he didn't care if it meant sinking to his level and being childish; Ron had no intention of granting the fucker any courtesy he hadn't earned and certainly didn't deserve.

During this brief battle inside his mind, however, Ron found that the pair had moved from in front of him. A quick scan of the room and Ron spotted them again, deep in the crowd with mouths still locked together, stumbling towards the back of the building in the vague direction of the bathrooms.

Oh, for fuck's sake, Ron thought grimly, and after a moment of disgruntled hesitation, moved to follow.

: : :

Draco had only kissed two other people before this, and both instances had been fast, feverish, inexperienced, and slightly embarrassing; this guy's tongue invaded his mouth with a confidence forged from practice. A little rough, very determined, unforgiving—he kissed like he danced, like he'd touched and moved against Draco when Tonks had left them on the dance floor, and it was like he was reading Draco's every want in a partner, and giving it to him in full force.

For once in his life, Draco wasn't complaining.

He heard the slam echoing as the bathroom door swung closed behind them. It had been Draco's idea to come here, but only after the bloke had taken him by the hips and pulled Draco's back flush against him, and Draco had understood fully exactly how interested he was. It was awkward to move and snog simultaneously and they were both stumbling, and Draco surfaced, gasping for air—only to be recaptured almost instantly in another, quicker kiss, lips and a flash of tongue and teeth lingering on his bottom lip. He groaned slightly as his mouth was released.

His partner licked his lips. 'You're really, you know, uncannily good at that. Get around?'

Draco's eyes narrowed. This guy had begun to piss him off long before now, but previously he'd been willing to suffer it in exchange for the attention; now he was seriously considering whether or not he was horny enough to put up with it—but before he could make up his mind, he was roughly backed into one of the stanchions supporting the stall doors.

'Fuck,' he said, though it was more in acclamation than disapproval. Olive eyes lifted to meet Draco's while unfamiliar fingers ghosted his ribs. It tickled, making Draco's body shudder, resolve melt, and adrenaline shoot up all at once.

An eyebrow quirked. It was the same brown colour as the rest of his mussed scalp, but the dark shadows of the bathroom made it appear darker than it had on the dance floor. 'You still haven't told me your name,' he murmured.

Draco felt another sharp pang of irritation snap at the back of his mind. He tried to ignore it. 'Does it matter?'

The guy shrugged. 'I guess not. Most people just tend to make introductions before they—well, you know.'

'Wank off in the loo?' Draco supplied, his voice deadpan.

A sly, suggestive smile spread across the bloke's face. 'Just a wank?'

'Well,' said Draco. And then he didn't say anything else, because the man had him by the lips and hips and was backing him into the stall in the corner. There was a loud, echoing _smack _as the door slammed shut.

Draco was aware of the fact that he coveted being touched—he'd just never quite realised _how _much until three years and some months ago, when the sudden lack of petting through Pansy had made it undeniably evident. Physical contact, both intimate and otherwise, had always been important to him, and having been starved of both for so long made the touches feel like magic in corporeal form against his skin. Skilled hands ran up his sides, caressing him through his shirt, over his chest, down his ribs, along his waist, slipping to his lower back, and—Draco broke the kiss long enough to gasp—over his arse, and gave a generous squeeze.

'Like that, do you?'

Irritation snapped at the back of his mind again. 'I like your mouth better when my tongue's in it,' Draco told him curtly.

'Is that so?' The hands on his arms slipped back around his waist, and thumbs ran along the lines of his hips, slipping behind the belt and under the rim of his jeans, right above his groin. Draco bit back a groan and the man leaned forward, breath ghosting his ear. 'I think you like my mouth anywhere, so long as it's on you.'

Draco grinned out of sight. Bracing one foot on the porcelain bowl of the toilet beside them, he pressed their hips together. There was a satisfied hiss by his ear and the man's hands went back to his arse, taking a firm hold and pulling Draco against him. The hot, wet, open mouth by his ear trailed to his jaw, down his throat, straight to the middle of his collarbone. Fingers began pulling at the buttons of his shirt collar, and, after a moment of suffering a short-circuit due to the new sensation of teeth on his collarbone, Draco's mind cleared and he grabbed the hand unbuttoning his shirt.

'Stop,' he gasped. 'Leave it.'

Olive eyes looked up, annoyed. 'Why?'

'Just—' Draco heaved a sigh. He did not want to explain this, least of all to a total stranger. 'Leave it,' he said again.

'Prick,' was all the other man offered, dropping his hand. Instead, it took hold of Draco's belt and gave it a little tug. 'I suppose _this _can come off?'

Draco's smirk was the only answer required. Undeterred by Draco's warning, however, the man lifted the bottom of his shirt a few inches, and kissed the space between his bellybutton and his trousers. Draco's entire body went rigid and a hand tangled in the curly hair. A tongue flickered out, lapping the translucent hairs that trailed down towards his groin, and his hand tightened while the man continued undoing his belt with one hand, palming his erection through the denim with the other. Draco wasn't sure how far this guy was planning to go, though from the earlier comment implicating that he was loose, Draco had a good idea; and though he had no intention of losing his virginity in a dirty bathroom stall, thanks very much, he certainly wasn't averse to getting a blowjob in one.

That said, perhaps he'd wait to mention his abstinence until after that.

Draco's head fell forward and he let his eyes close, concentrating on the way the motions of the stranger's hand, sliding, squeezing, fingernails dragging across the demin. Just as the zipper was drawn down, and lips and tongue touched the flesh just above the elastic band of Draco's boxers, the stall door crashed open.

'Bloody fucking hell, Malfoy.'

Draco's eyes flew open, then narrowed immediately as he lifted his head. 'Oh, hullo, Weasley,' he drawled. 'I'm afraid you'll have to wait your turn.'

Olive-eyes took his hand off Draco's erection as he stood up (eliciting an aggrieved noise from Draco) and gave Ron a critical glance. 'Friend of yours?' he asked Draco.

'Nuisance of mine, more like it.'

'Fuck you,' Ron said, folding his arms. 'Get lost,' he told the stranger. 'And you,' he said, looking at Malfoy, 'are still under preventative custody, and we're leaving, so let's go.'

'Piss off,' Draco told him. 'You can wait ten minutes.'

'I can,' Ron said, evenly. 'But I'm not going to.'

'Merlin's bloody fucking beard,' the stranger snapped, straightening his shirt. He gave Draco an annoyed look. 'I'm not going to fucking wait around while you work shit out with your boyfriend here, so—'

'He's not—'

'Good,' Ron said over him to the bloke. 'So clear off.'

As he said it, he withdrew his wand from the sheath strapped to his forearm—on the back of which something small and gold glinted—and the stranger's eyes widened suspiciously. 'Yeah, all right,' he said, shooting a sideways look at Draco, and slipping past Ron without another word.

'You must loveflashing that badge around,' Draco sneered, re-belting his jeans and buttoning the last few buttons on his shirt as he stepped out of the stall. 'Must make you feel much more important than you actually are.'

'Get your fucking oats in your own time,' Ron snapped. 'I know it's probably an alien concept to you, but some of us have workto go to in the morning.'

'Don't get your knickers in a knot just because you're a right ugly splotch, Weasley,' he drawled. 'What's a matter, Granger not putting out?'

Ron tensed, and Draco fully expected to be hit. Instead, Ron raised his wand and pointed it at Draco. 'Now are you going to move, or do I get to _make _you?'

: : :

Cursing, Hermione pulled her dressing gown on, tying the waistband haphazardly as she trotted down the stairs. The knocking on the door had not subsided, and she had a mind to hex whatever was on the other side without waiting for an explanation—after all, it was near three in the morning, and she had an early, long and, if the past few days were anything to judge by, very irritatingday ahead of her.

'All right, all right, all _right_,' she snapped, flinging the door open, wand drawn. 'Just what on... _Ron_?'

'Hey,' he greeted, with a lopsided grin.

She gaped at him. 'What is it? Is something wrong? Are you all right?'

'You,' he said, ignoring her questions, 'look very lovely this morning.'

'Ronald Weasley,' she said sharply, 'do you have _any idea_ what time it is?'

'No,' he said truthfully. She bristled and his grin widened as he leant in and said in a low voice, 'You're also very _cute _when you're t'd off.'

'_Ron_,' she said reprovingly as he stepped over the threshold. 'Are you drunk?'

'I like your house,' he went on, closing the door behind him. 'Smells good. Except for that ruddy cat. Where are you going?' he asked as she backed up to allow him room to step in. 'I'm not going to bite.'

'I think you should get home,' she said reasonably, but stopped moving. 'We both have work in the morning, and—' she squeaked as two hands took her by the waist and pulled her close, enabling her to smell the liquor on his breath, '—and you're really quite drunk, so—'

She stopped talking abruptly as he leaned down, brushing his lips against hers as he spoke in a very low voice. 'Not _that _drunk.'

And then she had no time to say anything in protest because his mouth enveloped hers.

She was _trying _to say, 'Ronald, this is really inappropriate, you're drunk, let's get you home.' What she ended up doing was giving a muffled squeak and back-pedalling into her living room, and, as his hands had a firm grip on her waist, Ron went with her, not breaking the kiss. She hadn't intendedto kiss him back but, well, she was still very groggy and he was being rather insistent and—oh, hell, this could only end badly.

He backed her down onto the couch, and Hermione was once again reminded of how very enormous Ron was—or perhaps how very small she was—as his form completely covered hers, sandwiching her between the soft cushions and the firmness of his body. The hands on her hips undid the tie of her dressing gown, pushed the material aside and slipped up her sides, fingers ghosting the fabric of her nightgown.

She shivered, which seemed to encourage him, as he pulled out of the kiss, continently, feathering kisses along her jaw and down the side of her neck as his knee wedged itself between her own. She gasped as his thigh pressed up between her legs, her hands clawing at his shoulders. He burrowed his face in the crook of her neck and let out a heavy, contented sigh.

After a few seconds of inactivity, she pushed at his shoulders a little; he sagged like a very warm, dead weight atop her and she groaned.

'Ron,' she said heavily, 'are you _asleep_?'

A very loud snore was her only answer.

: : :

'Milk is disgusting,' Draco said firmly. He wasn't slurring as badly as Tonks had been just before Ron took her home, but he was certainly heavier. Harry shoved him off. 'I mean, whose bright idea was it to grab a cow's privates and say, "Hey, let's squeeze these and drink whatever comes out!" I mean, for all they knew, it was cow jizz. It even _looks _like cow jizz. Why the fuck would anyone want to drink that?'

'That's disgusting,' Harry stated.

'My point exactly!' Draco said, entirely missing the point. 'It's like, I had my share of it when I was an infant. I'll stick to hard liquor now, if you don't mind. I'd put Firewhisky in my tea before any cow jizz or soy jizz or any other jizz-like substance you can produce, thanks much. And think of the baby cows! Think of the _calves_. We're depriving them of their jizz!'

He swayed slightly, and Harry resigned himself to being a crutch as they made their way down the street. Draco had been systematically taking Harry through a list of everything he despised since they had left the bar. Ron had been at the top of his list, and Harry a close second. 'Is there anything you don'thate?'

'Peanuts,' Draco said thoughtfully. 'Rainy days. Furry animals that don't attempt to maim. Like gerbils. Guinea pigs. Itty-bitty owls. Or, um...'

'Cats?' he suggested.

'Cats have claws and sharp teeth,' Draco said irritably, shaking his head. 'No. Like... like _rabbits_. I always wanted a pet rabbit. Or dogs. Dogs are okay.'

'Dogs have teeth,' Harry pointed out. 'And claws.'

'But dogs are _cuddly_,' Draco insisted. 'But I was never allowed to have one. Mum and her bloody cat—I fucking hate that cat. I want to feed it to that fucking Hippogriff, and then feed _that _to your Hungarian Horntail. The world would be rid of two malicious animals, a hungry dragon would be sated, and everybody's happy.'

'It wasn't _my _Horntail. And Buckbeak is not malicious. Anyway, it's your house now,' he said reasonably. 'You could get a dog, couldn't you?'

'Mum would have a _fit_,' Draco said mournfully. 'She loves that stupid, nasty, scratchy, bitey, vile cat. You know he only bites me when she's not looking? He has it in for me, but she thinks I'm imagining things. I actually think I hate that cat more than I hate _you _and that, mate, is saying something. You know what else is really good?' Draco continued, and Harry resigned himself to the rambling. 'Apples. Really good champagne. Anything spicy. And I mean _really _spicy. Like burn-your-bloody-tongue-off-spicy. Sushi,' he added after a moment. 'Fish in general, really. What a wonderful invention, fish. Do you like fish?'

'Don't eat it much,' Harry admitted. 'S'expensive.'

'Mreh,' Draco said dismissively. 'You peasants and your money. Or lack thereof. If you'd taken that spot in Puddlemereyou could afford fancy dinners. And fucking hell, now I'm hungry. So what _do _you like?'

Harry thought about it. 'Treacle tart,' he decided.

'That's dessert,' Draco insisted. 'Doesn't count.'

Harry thought about it some more. 'Treacle tart,' he decided.

'Let me clarify the question,' Draco said intellectually. 'What do you like in which sugar is _not _the main ingredient?'

Harry frowned and racked his mind. 'Uhm,' he said after a moment. 'Hell, I dunno. Pizza?'

'Is that another one of your Muggle abominations you try to pass off as food?'

Harry gawked at him. 'You've never had _pizza_?'

'You say it like it's a sin.'

'It isa sin!' Harry protested. 'How the hell could you have never had pizza?'

The conversation continued in a similar fashion all the way back to Harry's flat. He found that talking to an inebriated Draco was very much like talking to a sober Luna—he was calm, knowing, overly confident, and argued points very well, mostly due to the fact that logic had been flung out the window. The only difference was that Draco was a lot more vulgar, and did annoying things like try to hit Harry when he made a snide comment.

'You need a car,' Draco observed as they approached his street. 'All this walking. Tiring.'

'We're too drunk to drive,' Harry pointed out.

'I could hire us a chauffeur,' Draco offered.

'Buy me a car while you're at it,' Harry remarked, rolling his eyes.

'A really cute one,' Draco continued, oblivious. 'If you tip them enough, they'll even drive topless.'

'How would _you _know?'

Draco grinned sideways at him. 'My father spoiled me rotten, that's how.'

Harry made a face. 'At least you admit it.'

'I've never denied it,' Draco pointed out truthfully, then moaned. 'Oh, hell, why do you have so many _stairs_?'

'To irritate you.'

'I don't find that hard to believe. Oi, give us a hand.'

'I'm not going to carry you.'

'Please?' Harry gave him a narrow look and Draco sighed in resignation. 'At least give me a hand, you pillock. You're supposed to be the chivalrous one. So start chivalrousing.'

'That's not even a verb.'

'I'll verb any word I damn well please,' Draco informed him.

Harry sighed, half-heaving him up the last few stairs. 'You're hopeless.'

'So is your wardrobe,' Draco remarked, sniffing haughtily. 'I don't suppose you're pissed enough to give me back my wand?'

'Not on your life.'

'Bollocks.' Draco leaned against the door. 'Are you going to open it, or are we sleeping out here?'

'Shut up a minute, I'm checking the wards.' It wasn't entirely untrue; he was _attempting _to check the wards but failing miserably because of his inability to focus. And he hadn't even had that much to drink—perhaps Draco's inebriated state was wearing off on him.

'It's cold,' Draco complained. 'This jacket is hardly adequate.'

'It's _July_, Malfoy.'

'It's three in the morning in July,' Draco persisted. 'Open the shittin' door already.'

Too tired to argue, Harry unlocked the door with a flick of his wand and pushed inside, Draco on his heels. It was warm and dark inside, and Harry dropped his jacket on the floor somewhere beside the door—he'd really gotten too used to Dobby picking up after him—before heading towards the kitchen. 'You want some coffee?'

'I want another drink,' Draco muttered, flinging his jacket similarly on the floor.

'You've had enough.'

'Not enough to put up with you.' Draco took a disgusted look around the kitchen, eyeing some of the Muggle appliances with clear distaste. 'Why the fuck are you living like a Muggle?' he said, turning to face him. 'Do you despise being a wizard that bloody much?'

'I don't despise being a wizard,' Harry told him shortly. 'I just don't like the attention.'

'Oh, so _that's _it,' Draco went on, sneering. 'Harry Potter doesn't hate being a wizard, he just hates all the _other _wizards. My mistake.'

'It's not like that,' Harry snarled. 'Muggles don't know who I am. I don't have to worry about _Prophet _reporters outside my bloody door every morning, that's all.'

'Ah, I see,' Draco said, with a nasty smirk that made him look like the teenager Harry had grown to loathe so many years ago. 'So this is just another one of your martyrdom stunts.'

'Fuck you.'

'You don't seem to be doing much of that, either,' Draco continued without losing a beat. 'So tell me, Potter, how long has Smith been shagging your scarlet harlot?' Draco ducked back just as Harry moved forward snickering at him tauntingly, tilting his head to the side and looking absurdly pleased with himself. 'Ooh, now _there's_ the Potter I love to hate. Trying to fool us all with your grown-up act, weren't you?'

'Fuck you,' Harry spat again, moving further forward, until Draco had retreated backwards into the living room to keep the distance between them. 'Don't you dare talk about her that way. Don't you talk about _any _of them that way,' he snarled. 'You've no fucking right—'

'Oh, don't I?' Draco interrupted. 'Sorry, forgot I needed to consult the bloody _Chosen One_ every time I decide to speak my mind—Merlin knows I can't have my own fucking opinion in youresteemed company. Hate to break it to you, Potter, but as far as I'm concerned, you'll never be more than some over-zealous, celebrated, four-eyed _trite_. You and your fucking redheaded sidekick and your whole bloody righteous facade can suck my fucking cock.'

'Don't you even start on Ron,' Harry snarled, rising to the bait. 'He's worth ten of you, Malfoy.'

'You know, I'd love to hear how you come to _that _conclusion.'

'Because I don't measure people's worth by their fucking vault contents!' Harry shouted, his temper rising. 'You were just some prick! You're _still _just some prick, I don't care how much gold you have!'

'How the fuck would _you _know what I am?' Draco shouted back. 'You never bothered to find out, did you? Just took the word of your precious fucking Weasley, like _he _would know!'

'If he was wrong, then why were you always being such a spiteful, nasty shithead all of the time?'

'I wanted to hurt you!'

'Why—what fucking twisted reason did you have to want to hurt me?'

'Oh, no reason,' Draco snarled. His voice was dangerously low. 'You only shut me down point-blank and humiliated me that time I tried to make friends. No big deal.'

'Oh, right, _friendship_. You weren't just trying to coerce the fucking Boy Who Lived into joining your little posse, no,' Harry said, rolling his eyes. 'My mistake. You wanted to be _friends_.'

'Of course I wanted to be your friend, you idiot! I fucking _idolised _you!'

Harry blinked, biting back his next nasty retort. He stared at Draco, who was breathing heavily and staring at the floor.

'You did?' he asked.

Draco's eyes looked up at him then. 'Yes, I did,' he said flatly. 'Of course I fucking did. Who_ didn't?_ You were _Harry Potter,_ infant wizard extraordinaire. I grew up reading books about how bloody awesome and wonderful you were, defeating the most powerful wizard in history, and then found out I wasn't only _going to school_ with you, but you were in the same God damned _year _as me.'

Harry didn't know what to say to this. Instead, he kept his jaw clenched shut, though he felt his temper subside slightly.

'I fucking,' Draco paused, shaking his head. 'I sent Vince and Greg up and down the platform and train looking for you that day, I was so bloody excited. Most people were looking forward to going to Hogwarts for the first time, and here I was, Malfoy scion in all his glory, running up and down the train like some besotted fangirl looking for _Harry fucking Potter_. And where do I find him?' Draco's lip lifted in a nasty curl. 'On the arm of a _Weasley_.

'That was bad enough on its own. Obviously, I mused, Harry Potter's spent his life with Muggles and completely uneducated in the social standings of certain wizarding families. Wouldn't want him mixing with those less-than-respected because he didn't know any better.' Harry's eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off, continuing with, 'That's what I _believed_, Potter. I was trying to _help _you. I _still _wanted to be your fucking friend, even if it meant enduring the Weasel until you figured out what scum he was—which,' Draco went on firmly as Harry opened his mouth to interrupt again, 'was a _huge _compliment to you, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. And what do you do? Spit in my fucking face, right after your Weasel friend spat on my name.'

Draco gave him a long, hard look. 'Good enough fucking reason for you?'

Harry realised his mouth was still slightly agape, and shut it. 'Look,' he said quietly. 'I...' Harry's lowered his head; normally, he had no trouble holding Draco's eyes, but it was all a bit much to take in on its own, never mind while trying to match that steely gaze. 'I had no idea,' he finished. 'Hell, Malfoy, if you had just—how was I—Ron was the first person I met that didn't make me feel inadequate,' he tried to explain.

'That doesn't surprise me.'

'Fuck off,' Harry said absently. 'Ron's—'

'—worth ten of me, right,' Draco finished nastily. 'Whatever. I _tried _to be your friend, Potter. Which is more than I can say for you.'

'Oh, piss off,' Harry snapped. 'You were horrible long before Ron told me you were. With half the things you called Hermione—'

'Yes, because it's _so _unusual for teenagers to _bully _one another, Potter. Really,' Draco snorted, shaking his head. 'If half the things I heard about your bloody father and _his _crew are true—'

'Don't,' Harry interrupted warningly, his temper flaring back up again immediately. He wasn't sure if he was speaking more to Draco or himself; _don't keep talking—don't hit him—don't start—don't hit him—don't—_

'—worst fucking bunch of punks ever to set foot in the place. Especially that shithead godfather of yours,' Draco went on spitefully, smirking. 'Merlin knows _he _certainly got what he deserved.'

Harry saw red, and hit him.

: : :

Everything in the Constantine household was neat and dark, and the only light was coming from the small slit in the large drapes covering the living room window, through which two figures were trying to stealthily climb. Aside from the sound of their fervent breathing, everything was very, very quiet.

Then the lamp by the windowsill was nudged off its stand.

_Crash_.

'Oh, shit,' came Michael's voice in a hushed whisper. 'That wasn't anything important, was it?'

Katherine stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to muffle the giggles. 'Um...' More giggling. 'Don't think so. Woah—' _Clunk_. 'Whoopsie.'

Katherine knew her father would see the mess, and knew she would get into trouble for it, but frankly she was too inebriated to care, and certainly too giggly to perform a simple _Alohomora_, hence entry through the window.

'You're in a right state.' Michael was laughing. 'When does your—'

'_My _state is _your _fault,' Katherine interrupted, and then giggled again, 'and Dad won't be home for at least a few hours, some stupid Wizzygoober meeting, as usual.'

'Good to know,' said a sharp, cold voice from the darkness.

The giggling stopped abruptly, because the third voice sounded familiar. Horribly, frighteningly, mind-numbingly familiar. Katherine was hovering uncertainly by what she hoped was her boyfriend. Someone—Michael—found her hand and gave it a good squeeze.

'A few hours...' the horribly familiar voice murmured. A dark, cloaked figure had stepped out of the darkness of the room and stopped in the small slash of orange light stretched across the room. 'That'll give us plenty of time to reacquaint ourselves,' it said, and the cloaked figure lifted its head, revealing a ghoulish, dark green mask under the hood. 'Won't it, sweetheart?'

There was a flash of green light, and then somebody screamed. There was another crash, and—

Katherine woke up with a sudden start, and the harsh, bright light was the first clue that she was no longer in the same place—but for some reason, she could still hear the screaming. It took her several seconds to realise that the noise was coming from her own mouth and she stopped abruptly. There was a throbbing in her head, and as she sat up, all of the muscles in her back screamed out in agonised protest.

'Well, well, well,' someone above her chuckled, 'look who decided to rejoin the land of the living.'

Katherine froze. That voice again... _oh please, God, no..._

'What's the matter, doll?' Someone grabbed the back of her head by the hair and forced her to look up. He was no longer wearing the mask, and with a terrible clarity she recognised his face. The same short, dark hair, thin nose and lips, bony cheeks and pallid skin all framed a horrible slash over his left eye, rendering it opaque and blind. 'Bad dream?'

Someone behind her laughed cruelly. Katherine stared into the face for a moment, hoping that this was, in fact, a bad dream. She could feel a stream of tears already running down her cheeks, and she cursed and tried to pull away. The grip on her hair tightened.

'Oh, look, she _does _remember,' her captor declared cheerily, and Katherine was hauled up as he stood. He sneered down at her trembling face. 'How long has it been? A little over a year? You've come along rather well, all things considered.' He pulled her around by her hair, and showed her to the man standing behind her—this one was a little older, slightly shorter and more rugged. 'Wouldn't you say, Avery?'

'Certainly better than what I have to go home to,' Avery agreed solemnly. He was leaning up against the stone wall with his hands in the pockets of his cloak, smirking. 'Don't know what _you _have to complain about, though.'

Katherine was slammed into the nearest wall. It was made of dark, rough stone that cut into her cheek as he held her there. She whimpered quietly.

'You know how it is, they start to get dull after a while,' he sneered. He traced his wand down the stream of tears along her cheek, over her chin, down her throat and along her collarbone; she shuddered and tried to pull away, but between him and the wall, she had nowhere to go. 'Every once in a while it's good to get some fresh meat—' his wand continued down her chest, below the collar of her blouse, '—they're just so much more _fun _when they're unspoiled.'

Avery chuckled. 'You really enjoy this far too much, Nott.'

'I do,' Theodore agreed, dropping the shivering, sobbing girl back down on the floor. 'I really, really do.'

: : :  
_  
He almost kissed me walking home  
I didn't even scold him  
I just said where is this leading _  
- Cyndi Lauper

: : :

Draco found out very quickly how hard Harry could hit, even with his wand arm in a sling.

For the second time in a week, he was boasting a split lip. There had been a generous amount of blood in his mouth and, after deciding he wasn't drunk to the point of being disgusting enough to spit it out, he'd swallowed it.

Then he'd hit Harry back as hard as he could.

The living room bore the marks of a great calamity, and Draco had fled the furious green eyes that flashed at him by way of the kitchen, only to find himself cornered and tired of running from a fight. Instead, he'd thrown one of the kitchen chairs at Harry, only to learn that Harry could take quite a beating without so much as a flinch. Thankfully, he seemed to be too drunk to remember—or perhaps sober enough to—that Draco didn't have his wand, and the weapon of choice ended up being his fists.

Well, if the pillock wanted a fight, Draco intended to give it to him.

It was a frightening experience, to see Harry this angry, his emotions so uncontrolled. The lights flickered dangerously before burning out with a nasty _spurt _and the cupboard doors kept slamming of their own accord. The kitchen window shattered abruptly for no reason at all and the table slammed itself up against the bench beside the stove, and the silverware rattled noisily inside its drawer. For a while, Dobby had shadowed Harry, begging him to calm down, but Harry outright ignored him until Dobby had intervened to prevent the table from overturning itself, and Harry, blinded by his anger, had ordered him away. Teary-eyed and distraught, the elf had no choice but to depart and leave Draco alone with Harry.

Draco was terrified out of his mind at the display of power, and might have been worried if he'd been sober, but all he felt right now was a need to beat every single irritation that had stacked up over the past several years into Harry's skull and then, maybe, he'd start feeling better. Every wave of anger, every flash of his eyes, cut through Draco's chest again and again until the mark there smouldered, scorching hot and burning against his skin like white fire. The alcohol helped dull the pain somewhat, so it became more of a throbbing afterthought, overshadowed by the urge to cause as much damage as he could to Harry with his bare hands.

A new, sharp pain shot up Draco's spine as he felt the small of his back slam into the sharp edge of the kitchen table. They may have been the same height, but Harry was still biggerthan he was, somehow, and Draco found himself once again overwhelmed by the torrent of pure powerthat Harry exuded at such close proximity; overwhelmed and completely intoxicated, inexplicably drawn to the omnipotent energy, wanting to get away from it and drown himself in it all at once. The air around them crackled and spat like hot oil, making Draco tense and wince involuntarily, cutting his breath short as he rode the power trip.

Harry grabbed his collar with his good hand just as Draco seized his, likewise; Draco braced his foot up against the opposite counter for leverage, ready to shove Harry off if need be—because ensorcelled by the power or not, Draco was not a fool, and was quite aware of how quickly this situation could go from dangerous to lethal if he pushed it in the wrong direction.

Harry had twisted his fist in Draco's collar so hard, it was close to choking him, knuckles digging unforgivingly into his throat, eliciting a hiss. Draco tightened his own fist, mirroring the rough treatment; Harry snarled and yanked hard, inadvertently closing the small space between them. Harry's eyes were dangerous—the green seemed to glow in the darkness, but maybe that was the magic, but there was something—and for the first fleeting moment their hips connected, Draco thought he was imagining things—and then the tense air around them flickered, snapped, and abruptly irrupted. It was as if someone had flipped a switch, and the outpouring of rage and power ceased, expelling itself elsewhere and leaving the room in a deathly, void silence.

The next moment, Draco realised he had not, in fact, imagined anything.

The struggle had left them both breathless, panting open-mouthed and starting to sweat. Harry opened his eyes as Draco tilted his head to the side, tugging Harry down by the collar, and breathed into his mouth. Harry held his gaze and didn't pull away, and Draco pressed his hips forward; Harry didn't return the pressure, but he didn't back away either. Smirking, Draco let his eyes fall half-closed, leaned up to Harry's still-open mouth, and ran the tip of his tongue along his upper lip.

The reaction wasn't immediate. It wasn't until Draco leaned forward and licked the bottom edge of his upper lip again, and then took it between his own lips, rubbing their noses together, that Harry exhaled, releasing his collar. Harry ran his hand up the side of Draco's neck, his thumb lingering against the pulse-point under his jaw and fingers twining in the hair on the back of his neck. Draco sucked on his lip once, briefly, before pulling him forward by the shirt and seizing his mouth in a kiss.

Harry wasn't as clever with his tongue as the bloke at the club had been, but what he lacked in finesse he made up in determination. There were other subtle differences, too; Harry wasn't as clean-shaven, and Draco could feel the rough bite of stubble as he ran his hand up to cup the underside of his jaw, his thumb ghosting Harry's cheekbone. Harry's touch and tongue were just as rough and firm as the stranger's had been, but there was something more considerate to his touch, taking Draco's reactions into account when he caressed or moved against him.

Draco repeated the movement with his thumb and his fingernail bumped the frame of Harry's glasses; growling softly into the kiss, he hooked his index and middle fingers around the shaft of the specs, tugging them off Harry's ear, up and away over his head, tucking them neatly in his fist while his other hand kept a firm grip on Harry's shoulder. Harry's hips rolled against his, slowly, tenaciously, and Draco had a brief epiphany as Harry's hips and hands and tongue tantalised his own into submission: _sonofabitch, he's done this before..._

And then Harry's hand, tangled in his hair, slid down his neck, over his collarbone, down his chest—and a searing, blinding pain that cut straight through his body and soul caused Draco to cry out and shove him away, hard, clutching at himself.

'Draco—?' Harry said, startled, standing back.

Draco was bent over, using the table for support, gasping, one hand still clawing at his chest, and Harry went to move forward, but Draco whirled on him, one hand raised defensively, before he could get close. '_Don't_,' he snarled dangerously. 'Don't _fucking _touch me ever again.'

And Harry stared, bewildered, as Draco swallowed heavily and stormed from the room, leaving him alone in the chaos that had, until recently, been the kitchen. Slamming the door to the guest room, Draco sunk onto the bed, shaking hard and covered with cold sweat. The sharp, burning sensation was long gone, but a dull ache remained, making his chest feel unnaturally heavy as he tried to steady his breathing and his heartbeat. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly, rubbing his face with his palms—and only then did he notice he still had Harry's glasses clasped in his fist.

: : :


	8. Chapter Seven: Justifying the Means

Chapter 7  
**Justifying the Means**

_We draw our strength from the very despair  
in which we have been forced to live._  
—Cesar Chavez

: : : : :

'Did you hear about that Katie girl?'

'Who?'

'Bell, I think's her name—'

'The Gryffindor Chaser?'

'Nearly killed…'

'S'what I heard—'

'—I heard she's dead—'

'—no, taking her to St. Mungo's, I think—'

'—any idea—'

'Nobody knows—'

'—teachers being real tight-lipped—'

'Harry Potter says he _saw it happen_—'

Draco chipped his plate, he was pressing down so hard on it with his knife. He had no idea how he'd managed so much force, considering the way his hands were shaking.

'Draco?' Pansy was sat beside him, looking concerned. 'Darling, you're sweating—and your hands—are you _sure _you're all right?'

Draco could still hear the frantic, hushed whispers of rumours behind him at the Ravenclaw table. He took a slow, steady breath and put his knife down carefully. Blaise was watching him from just down the table, but said nothing as Draco got to his feet, swinging his bag over his shoulder. 'I'm having an early night,' he announced.

Vince and Greg, sitting directly across from him, looked at one another. Vince shrugged and Greg, looking up, said, 'All right. You want us to—'

'No,' Draco said shortly, turning away.

'Okay,' he heard Greg say. Then, almost offhandedly, 'Take it easy, Draco.'

Draco closed his eyes briefly as he walked out of the Hall. He could practically feelPotter's eyes boring into his back, watching, studying, looking for clues. Draco gave him nothing—he kept his gait and posture casual, his face impassive. Potter knew he was up to something, but he did not know what—and more importantly, he had no way of proving it.

Draco waited until he had cleared the Great Hall and, with a careful look around to make sure he was alone in the corridor, broke into a run.

Two flights of stairs, three turns, a jog down a corridor, and Draco flung himself into the least-frequented bathroom he'd managed to find in the whole castle. It was one of the few places he could find privacy at school, something that was all too important these days. It was too risky to go _there _without a guard, in case he was discovered; the Prefects' bathroom was too frequently used by Prefects and friends they'd given the password to; his own dormitory wasn't even safe any more, and Draco was sorely regretting the decision to give up being a Prefect this year—because while it meant that he had more free time, he lost the private room, which he sorely could have used now.

Sinking to the floor with his back against the door, Draco finally gave into the tension, dropping his head on his knees as his arms curled around them, pulling them close to his chest. The bathroom's floor was horribly cold and damp and smelled disgustingly of piss, but he didn't care. He was shaking so badly, the door was rattling on its hinges.

He'd almost killed a girl.

_Killed_.

It wasn't the concept of murder that frightened him—or, at least, that's what he'd led himself to believe. He _knew _that was coming. But the person he was supposed to kill could be viewed as a symbol, an emblem—not a human being. Katie Bell, on the other hand... he knew who she was, but he'd never had a reason to insult her directly, even playing on opposite Quidditch teams. In fact, when he thought about it, and recalled her face, anything he _had _heard or noticed about her in his six years there were all good things. Sort of shy, sweet, blushed a lot, was good with charms. Nice girl. Pure-blood. His age. Talented Chaser. She was even quite pretty, as far as girls went.

And he'd almost _killed _her.

The sickness began welling in his throat, and he forced it down with a heavy swallow. No, he thought stubbornly, shaking his head. She was stupid. Stupid, stupid, _stupid _girl. Why the hell did she open it? Aunt Bella had said it would be safe, as long as no one opened it. But then, Aunt Bella could have easily made it so that only the recipient could open it. Which went to show that Aunt Bella really didn't care if someone else besides the recipient might accidentally befall its horrible fate.

What if _he'd_ accidentally opened it?

He bit back a sob, emitting an odd, choking noise. There was no point in trying to withhold the tears any more; it hurt too much to try and restrain them, and ended up making him look worse in the end. Merlin, if he could just fix the fucking cabinet already—once they were here, he'd be able to do it properly. No tricks, no roundabouts, no clever plots—and most importantly, no mistakes. Just the pointing of his wand, the utterance of the incantation, and the deed would be done; his father, forgiven, his mother, safe, his life, spared.

With two simple words he could right it all.

The noise of footfalls in the corridor alerted him to the end of dinner. Standing up quickly, Draco attempted to clean his face with the sleeve of his robes. He'd barely dried his eyes before his body gave another involuntary convulsion, and he caught himself on the edge of the sink before his knees gave out. He swore quietly as tears painted new trails down his cheeks, pooling along the line of his chin and jaw before running down his neck and slipping inside of his collar. Crying, cursing again, he forced himself to look up in the mirror above the sink.

A thin, pallid boy looked back at him, looking far older and more worn than should have been physically possible for a sixteen-year-old; once bright, sparkling, silver eyes had turned a dull grey, clouded with tears, deeply shadowed and red-rimmed; high cheekbones looked sharper than ever, more pronounced since he'd stopped eating; teeth gritted, jaw set, but lips trembling anyway as his face was left sticky and salty by the sobbing.

Draco felt deeply disgusted with himself; when, and how, had he been reduced to this? If his father saw him like this... if _He _saw him like this... _No_, his pride thought bitterly, trying and failing to diminish the sickness once again welling in his throat. He was stronger than this. He _had _to be.

_Then why can't I stop shaking?  
_  
'Oh, don't cry,' someone said behind him, and Draco whirled around so fast he nearly fell over.

At the opposite end of his wand floated a ghost, bespectacled and spotty, frowning, with a worried expression fixed on her round face; he recognised her as the ghost girls tended to complain about in their bathroom on this floor, but could not recall her name. Draco stared for a moment, then noticed the tip of his wand was shaking like the rest of him, and slowly lowered it. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm his heart, which was beating thunderously against his chest. Merlin help him, if it had been _Peeves_...

'What's wrong?' the ghost asked him, still looking concerned.

He gave a short laugh and managed to lift his lips into a meagre sneer. 'None of your bloody business.'

The ghost frowned at him. 'That's not very nice,' she said with a hiccough, looking crestfallen. 'I just want to help.'

'Piss off,' he said, turning back to the mirror. He could see her bobbing insistently in the background as he attempted to clean up his appearance; it'd be easier if he could _stop bloody crying_...

'I won't tell anyone,' the ghost said from behind him, picking at a spot on her chin. 'I'm not like those _other _ghosts. You can trust me,' she continued, ignoring his rolling eyes, 'I've never given up a secret. But people lie to me all the time...'

Draco snorted softly. 'Wonder why,' he muttered, turning on the tap and splashing his face with cold water. Looking up, he saw his eyes were still swollen and red, and he frowned.

The ghost's head appeared over his shoulder, sniffing solemnly. 'You need to let it out,' she advised him. 'No point in crying just a little, it only makes it worse—'

'Didn't I tell you to piss off?' he snapped, glaring at her.

'Just trying to help,' the ghost sniffed.

'Sorry if I won't take the advice of a dead girl,' he spat.

Her mouth opened as if to give an angry retort, but at that moment, Draco heard the door open. Cursing quietly—for he still looked like he'd spent the last half an hour sobbing—he dashed into one of the stalls towards the end, locking himself inside of it and standing back by the toilet. He held his breath and listened to the voices.

'—yeah, but she totally doesn't dig you, mate. You're wasting your time.'

'We'll see,' the second voice said. Heavy Irish accent. Draco leaned forward and pressed his ear to the door.

'At least she knows_ I_ exist,' the first voice said. 'You never even speak around her, it's a wonder she doesn't walk right through you.'

'Just because I don't open my mouth like a bloody—oi, who's bag is that?'

Draco's heart skipped a beat. _Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit._

'Dunno, Shay,' said voice number one. 'What d'you reckon? Leave it, or take it to McGonagall?'

Shay? ...Seamus? _Finnigan_? Draco could have smacked his forehead into the door. Of _course _it would be Gryffindors.

'Hm,' said Seamus. 'McGonagall, prolly. If Peeves finds it here...'

'Yeah, good point—bloody hell, Myrtle, this is a boys' loo!'

'So?' said the high-pitched voice Draco recognised as the ghost's. His heart began to beat rapidly. If she _told them_... 'The girls always chase me out of theirs.'

'Can you blame them?' Seamus sneered, and Draco was briefly impressed with how well he managed it. 'Nobodywants you around, Myrtle. All you do is bloody sob and screech.'

'Seamus!' Dean hissed, but it was too late; the damage was done.

A wail like a banshee's erupted from the ghost, and Draco winced and quickly covered his ears with his hands, and was pretty sure that both Gryffindors were doing the same.

'_No respect!_' she screamed at them. '_When you die, you'll see! Nobody'll want you around either, they'll all make fun of you, and hurt your feelings, and when nobody cares maybe you'll see what it's like! "This is a boys' loo!" That's all you care about, is you! Boys are so selfish! Get out!_'

'But—' Seamus began to protest.

'Let us get the—' said the first.

'OUT! GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT! GO USE THE GIRLS' LOO, FOR ALL I CARE!'

'Leave it, Dean!' Seamus shouted over the wailing, which had grown impossibly louder. 'Filch'll be here any minute!'

The moment the door slammed shut, the wailing abruptly ceased. Draco, leaning with his back against the door and breathing hard, looked up into the floating face of a very smug ghost.

'I told you,' she said squeakily, 'I just want to _help_. I won't tell _anybody_.'

Draco stared at her for a moment, then closed his eyes. After a moment of silence—and hoping she'd gone away—he said, very quietly, 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome,' she sniffed at him. He looked back up and saw her smile faintly. 'You can always trust me,' she assured him, lifting her chin. 'Myrtle always keeps her word.'

It was bad enough to be sobbing, Draco thought. But to be sobbing to a _ghost_?

If Voldemort didn't kill him, his father definitely would.

'I'm leaving,' he announced, exiting the stall and going to retrieve his bag.

Myrtle floated along behind him, saying, 'Oh, don't go, I'm here—you can talk to me—'

Draco opened his mouth, and then closed it, biting back a nasty retort. If he upset her, she was more likely to go blabbing about what she'd seen—and if the staff heard of Draco Malfoy weeping in the loos, nasty questions might be asked. And if _Snape _heard... 'I have a paper to finish,' he said instead. 'Sorry.'

Myrtle stopped following him as he reached the door, and sniffed again. 'Okay,' she said mournfully. 'But if you ever need to talk, Myrtle's here...'

'Yeah,' Draco said offhandedly, rolling his eyes at the door. 'I'll come back.' As he closed the door, he grimaced at the realisation that if things kept going so badly, he almost certainly would.

Predictably enough, the rest of term didn't go as badly; things got horribly, impossibly worse.

Draco had decided he _hated _being a teenager. It was so unfair that, amongst other things—his father in prison, Mother home alone, his task, his impending premature death—he had all the stupid things to worry about, as well. He'd managed to shirk Quidditch easily enough, but homework and classes were bad enough without the fact that _nothing _could be done about the fact that he was trapped in the body of a very insistently horny sixteen-year-old boy. A sixteen-year-old boy surrounded by girls in schoolgirl skirts and blokes he had to share showers and a bedroom with—many of whom had made it more than abundantly clear that they would absolutely _love _the opportunity to relieve his frustration.

Brushing Daphne off for the fourth time in a row—mumbling something about not wanting a bird with a boyfriend, much less a bird with a boyfriend and who also happened to be _his _girlfriend's best friend—Draco watched her long legs sashay away with a tired but hungry look in his eye. The fact that Pansy was absolutely obstinate about being hands-off did nothing to deter his desire, considering that he was armed with the knowledge that Daphne had and would, without a doubt, be willing to put a lot more than her hands to work below the belt. Only the strong, unrelenting image of his mother, weeping at the news that her husband was in prison—and the fact that her son would be working for the Dark Lord in his stead—quelled the impulse, and he dutifully turned back to his work.

It was so fucking _unfair_.

He had quickly learned, several weeks later, that hormones were a vicious, unforgiving force that was not to be meddled with. Or, rather, not to be not meddled with. Ignoring hormones did not bode well. They, unlike Pansy, did not go away when you refused to acknowledge them. They, unlike Daphne, did not bugger off when you told them you were not interested. They did not, unlike Snape, get angry and frustrated and finally give up and leave you in peace.

They got _even_.

This particular night, they sought revenge on Draco, weary and frustrated from an entire Sunday morning, afternoon and early evening spent locked away with his cabinet, the moment he walked into the Prefects' bathroom. He still had the password from the previous year, and was intent on having a private, very long, very hot bath... only to find himself facing a very naked, very wet and very soapy Blaise Zabini climbing out of the pool-sized tub.

Let it be known that Blaise Zabini, for all his personality flaws, made up for it all with the fact that there was nothing faulty whatso_ever_ with the rest of him.

Draco, unable to stop his eyes from raking over the naked torso, stared silently. He had come to terms with the idea that he found Blaise attractive sometime last year, so this did not come as a surprise. Though as far as he knew, Blaise was a bit of a tart, having left more than his fair share of girls crying in loos all over the castle; now, Draco could fully appreciate _why _said girls were so forlorn to see him skip off with another bird. Not only was he blessed with broad shoulders, exercised into a well-defined shape, but the bastard was hung like a fucking Hippogriff. It was all Draco could do _not _to gape.

The slick, gleaming skin and lather did nothing to help the smirk now adorning the bastard's lips. Draco felt himself swallow, and blamed his hormones for his complete shamelessness and lack of concern with the fact that he could not be bothered to raise his eyes back to Blaise's face.

'Malfoy,' Blaise said by way of greeting, reaching for the towel on the floor. 'You're not a Prefect any more.'

Draco was not staring at his hips. He was not staring at the water dribbling down his abdomen. He was not staring at the bubbles gathering just above his groin. He was not admiring the way the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders worked as he lifted the towel, light reflecting off the slickness of his skin. Normally, Draco would have had a snappy, sarcastic, instant-fire remark for him; but normally, Draco's brain wouldn't have imploded inside of his skull. He settled for a much simpler response: 'So?'

Blaise might have shrugged; Draco's eyes had moved on from his shoulders. 'So nothing,' he said easily. Draco did not take conscious notice of the fact that Blaise had decided to dry his hair before covering any of his indecency. 'I'll be finished in a minute, then I'm all yours.'

All this stress was beginning to affect his hearing, Draco thought, now he was having auditory hallucinations.

'Sorry,' Draco managed, finally meeting those dark eyes. 'What?'

'I'll be finished in a minute,' Blaise repeated, smirking. 'Then it's all yours.' There was a pause as Draco continued to stare, and Blaise adopted a knowing smirk. 'Unless,' he continued, moving the towel from his hair down the side of his neck, Draco following it down his chest and stomach, swallowing thickly, 'you'd like some company.'

Draco had felt his knees give a slight, involuntary spasm. He'd dropped his bag. Blaise had dropped his towel.

When they'd finished—which, in Draco's sorely neglected state, did not take long—Blaise had panted a few words into his neck: Sunday. Eight o'clock.

Draco had panted one word back: Yes.

: : : : :

Harry woke the next morning with the distinct impression that he'd sustained a very large barrage of Bludgers.

For this reason he did not attempt to sit up immediately. He just opened his eyes, blinked several times into the harsh light, and then shut them again, throwing his good forearm over his face to block out the brightness. He could smell the bitter scent of tea wafting in from the general direction of the kitchen, and then heard a muffled rustle of fabric from the settee just beside him.

Somewhere above his head, much too loudly and in a very good imitation of Tonks, a disembodied voice said, 'Wotcher, Harry.'

Harry clenched his eyes closed and waved the voice away with his good arm, turning to bury his head in the futon cushion, groaning.

The imitation of Tonks' happy tone was replaced with a lazy drawl. 'Are you awake?'

'No,' Harry grunted.

The voice snickered and Harry felt a soft pillow thump the back of his head. To his skull in its current state, it felt like a bag of bricks. 'Ooh, Potter's a grouch in the morning.'

'Go 'way,' Harry warned.

'Or what?' the voice drawled. 'You're more hungover than an Irish hooker. You wouldn't make it two feet off that couch.'

'I hate you,' Harry admonished into the cushion. 'Time's it?'

'Half past seven.'

Harry groaned, curling his head in tighter. 'Go '_way_.'

'As much fun as it is to torment you in your sotted state,' Draco informed him, 'we're meeting Granger at the Manor in half an hour, so you'd best get up and sober now.'

'I _hate _you,' Harry said with finality, rolling over with much effort and blinking at the bright and blurry outline that made up Draco sitting on the edge of his coffee table. 'Why am I on the couch?'

Draco might have blinked at him; Harry couldn't be sure without his glasses, but either way, there was a short pause. 'You don't remember?' Draco asked, caution lining his voice.

'Remember what?' Harry asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

There was another pause, and then Draco stood up. 'We had a bit of a row,' he admitted after a moment. 'Dobby's cleaned up the mess in the kitchen already but this room's still a disaster. Anyway, I don't think you bothered to find your way back to your room afterwards.'

Harry jumped as something small and light was tossed onto his stomach; his fingers curled around his glasses. He crammed them on and took a quick look around the living room—several things lay in disarray, the television was cracked, the bookcase was knocked over, and the coffee table was boasting a nasty dent. The white walls bore scorch marks, as if someone had held very large candles to the paint long enough to burn, and all of the lights looked as if they'd exploded.

'A _bit _of a row?' he said dubiously. Blinking up at Draco, who now came into focus.

Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry dimly noted he had a split lip again, and what looked like a long, nasty bruise just under his jaw and along one of his cheekbones. 'You want cream with your tea?' he asked.

Harry nearly said 'Yes' automatically but stopped himself short. Furrowing his brow, he said, 'Er. No. Black, if you don't mind.'

Draco suddenly looked extremely pleased with himself. 'Hell, you're knackered,' he remarked. He smirked and turned away, adding, 'As if I'd make _you _any.'

Then he walked off into the kitchen, sniggering and shaking his head. Harry frowned. 'Dick.'

Getting up took a lot more effort than it should have, and the left side of his body was extremely stiff and screamed in silent agony as he forced himself into a sitting position, pausing to rub his eyes behind his glasses with his left hand. His right forearm, still tucked in its sling, was throbbing dully as he made his way down the hall to the bathroom.

Stripping one-handed was hard enough. Stripping one-handed when half of his body was stiff and his stomach was trying to jump ship out of his throat took a lot longer. When the last of his clothes had been shed (his shirt) and the shower water was deemed hot enough by a tentative hand-motion, Harry stripped off the sling, taking care to keep his injured arm relatively still as he stepped inside the box.

It wasn't until he reached up with his uninjured arm to start washing his hair that he noticed the long, heavy bruise adorning the left side of his body.

'Jesus bloody fuck,' he muttered, staring. Admittedly, it looked a lot worse than it felt; his left side felt stiff and sore, but not nearly as sore as the cloud-like mass of purplish-yellow painting his ribs and lower back appeared. It looked, oddly enough, very much like he had sustained a barrage of Bludgers.

When he finished washing, he only bothered to tug on his pants and the same pair of jeans he'd worn the night before, then re-affixed the sling, and made his way purposefully to the kitchen—sopping hair and lack of shirt be damned. Draco, halfway through a sip of what looked like tea and browsing through that day's _Daily Prophet_, looked up at him from the table and promptly choked, spluttering tea all over the mug and the table.

'My sentiments exactly,' Harry growled, angling so Draco—still spluttering—could get a good look at his left side. 'Is this your idea of "a bit of a row"?'

Draco stared at him, unblinking, wiping the tea off his chin with the back of his hand. 'Uh,' he offered as way of explanation.

'What the hell happened?' Harry demanded, ignoring the oddly less-than-eloquent Malfoy. He made to fold his arms, then realised he couldn't do that with one arm in a sling. Disgruntled, he hooked his left thumb in the rim of his jeans instead. Draco was staring at that hand, not answering, until Harry cleared his throat. 'Well?'

Draco started, looking up at his face once more. 'Uh,' he said again. Then he shook his head as if to clear it, squinting up at Harry. 'You don't remember _anything_?'

Harry gave a one-shouldered shrug. 'I remember a little. I don't remember getting side-swiped by a truck, however.'

Draco's brow furrowed and he looked away, swallowing. He mumbled something.

'Sorry?'

'I sort-of chucked a chair at you,' Draco mumbled a little louder. Looking up in the silence that followed, he narrowed his eyes. 'What? You bloody attacked me! What did you expect me to do?'

'I did not _attack _you—'

Draco spluttered again, indignantly, effectively interrupting him. 'What the bloody hell would _you _call it?' he demanded.

'Well, you shouldn't have been mouthing off about Sirius!'

Draco stiffened and gave Harry a very hard look. 'What _do _you remember?'

Harry furrowed his own brow and racked his mind a little. 'Not much,' he admitted. 'Flashes, really. Mostly you talking and being an arrogant prat. And I remember hitting you.' He paused, shaking his head. 'But why did you have to chuck a _chair _at me?'

'You're a bit of a brute when you're angry,' Draco said, shrugging and handing his cup to Dobby, who whisked off to refill it. 'I didn't have a wand, so—'

'So you resorted to hitting me with furniture as opposed to your fists,' Harry finished dully.

'Better than a hex,' Draco pointed out.

'It still fucking hurts.'

'It's not like it'll be hard to fix. And you say all _I_ do is complain.'

'So the fact that it's easy to fix justifies your hitting me with a chair?'

'Does the fact that I bad-mouthed your godfather justify your giving me a bloody lip?' Draco snapped in return. 'It was a fight. We were _drunk_, Potter. It was bound to happen, and frankly, I'm surprised it took as long as it did.' Draco eyed him quickly before looking away, wrinkling his nose. He shifted uncomfortably. 'Quit dripping all over the bloody floor, will you?'

'It's my floor, I'll drip on it if I like,' Harry snapped. Draco rolled his eyes and hid himself back behind the _Prophet_. 'When do we have to be at the Manor?'

'Ten minutes,' came the curt reply from behind the paper.

Harry swore quietly, angry at both his aching side and the fact that he couldn't justify blaming it on Draco without blaming himself for hitting him in the first place. Frustrated that Draco was apparently at ease ignoring him, Harry resigned himself to sitting down and drinking the tea Dobby offered him.

'We should fix these,' Harry said offhandedly after a few minutes of silence, gesturing at said injuries.

Draco grunted, not taking his eyes from the paper.

'Hermione'll do her nut if we turn up like this.'

Draco grunted again.

'Will you at least _look _at me?' Harry snapped, annoyed.

Draco lowered the paper and gave him a pointed look. This close, Harry could see that the split lip was ripe and swollen, and make out the severe bruising around his collar, as if someone had attempted to strangle him. Harry didn't ask if he'd choked him like that. Instead, after a moment, he said, 'You're still dripping, Potter.'

Harry made a face. 'Does it bother you?'

'Obviously.'

'Why?'

'The same reason just being _around _you bothers me,' Draco retorted, wrinkling his nose again and turning his eyes back to the paper. 'Because it's annoying.'

'You're one to talk,' Harry said, snorting. Even though his gaze was fixed on the article in front of him, Draco's eyes weren't moving. Or blinking, for that matter, even when he automatically reached for his tea and took another sip.

Harry frowned. 'Is there something I don't remember that I should?' he asked.

For the second time that morning, Draco choked on his tea, this time spitting half of it up on the paper. Slamming the _Prophet _down along with his mug, his eyes snapped to Harry again. 'Must you interrogate me so bloody early in the morning?'

Harry, taken aback, said, 'I was just—'

'I don't give a damn what you were "just",' Draco snapped. 'It's not even bloody eight in the morning, and I don't think I'm asking too much for five consecutive uninterrupted minutes to have a cuppa without your badgering. You're worse than my bloody mum—at least _she _has the decency to be properly dressed before grilling me about inanities. You are _not _the only one with a hangover, Potter, and I swear to Merlin, if you make this headache any worse than it already is, this time I'll upgrade the chair to the table and you can see how _that _feels.'

Still muttering under his breath while Harry recovered from this onslaught, Draco cleaned himself up while Dobby quietly supplied him with a third cup of tea. Giving him a long look, Harry decided he was too tired to try and figure out the details, as Draco was clearly not much of a morning person.

'Right,' Harry said finally, ignoring the pained face Draco made into his mug and glancing up at the clock. 'It's five to, we should get moving.' He stood up, and waited a moment until Draco, with a very heavy sigh, followed suit. 'Here, let me,' he said, pulling his wand out of his jeans' pocket, moving to tilt Draco's head to the side with the back of his hand so he could get a good look at the bruising.

Draco flinched before he could touch him, back-pedalling away from Harry like he had burned him, wide-eyed and tensing. 'Leave it,' he snapped.

Harry stared at him. 'I'm not going to hit you again,' he said, somewhat indignantly. 'You can't go out looking like that.'

'Give me my wand,' Draco said, 'and I'll fix it myself.'

'I'm not giving you your wand,' Harry said firmly.

'And you're not touching me, either,' Draco said, just as firmly.

'What the hell is your problem?' he demanded.

'You are not coming near me,' Draco repeated slowly, eyes and tone even. 'Now you can either let me do it and then have my wand back, or you can explain to Granger.'

Harry narrowed his eyes. 'Don't even try playing the victim here, Malfoy.'

'Then stop trying to play the arbiter,' Draco replied coolly. 'Just because I'm under your bloody supervision doesn't mean I'm here to tote around and molest as you fancy; last night was your initiative, and if I recall, _I_ wanted nothing to do with it, so as far as I'm concerned, _you _are culpable for anything that transpired.'

'Will you at least tell me what happened?'

Draco's expression didn't alter. 'We had a row, I already told you.'

'Just a row,' Harry repeated dully.

'It's eight o'clock,' Draco said abruptly, changing the subject. 'We're already late.'

There was several moments' pause while Harry's mind tried, and failed, to figure out what the hell had possessed Draco this morning. It was obvious that something significant had occurred but he could not remember what, and frankly, thinking about it was worsening his hangover-induced headache. He would probably remember it later, after her had some caffeine in his system, but right now they didn't have the time. Draco caught his wand as Harry tossed it to him, Seeker reflexes apparently still intact. 'Two minutes,' Harry said.

Draco sneered and, after carefully sidestepping around the far side of the table, disappeared down the hall into the bathroom. As the bathroom door clicked shut, Harry took a step forward towards the bench, only to discover he'd left a sizeable puddle on the floor; his hair, still sodden, was sticking to his forehead and the back of his neck in a very uncomfortable way.

Then he realised his towel was still in the bathroom with Draco.

Swearing under his breath, Harry briefly wondered if it'd be considered dissolute to start a bottle this early in the morning. Deciding it probably would, he instead pulled out his own wand again and quietly went to work healing his own wounds; the bruise on his side was by far the worst, but he also had a nasty cut along his collar, a gash just under his eye, and a generous amount of bruising adorning his face, neck and shoulders—apparently, Draco _had _used his fists in addition to the chair.

Healed and waiting for Draco to come out of the bathroom, Harry sat down heavily in his vacated seat. He did not know why it was bothering him so much that he could not remember exactly what had transpired; something about the wild, frightened look in Draco's eyes as he'd leapt away from Harry as if he were a leper had jarred him to an extremely uncomfortable level. His rather juvenile, spiteful inner-self reasoned that whatever it was, Draco had probably deserved it. His slightly maturer, objective inner-self reasoned that he had been an idiot to hit Draco in the first place, no matter what he'd said.

After all, they'd been drunk. People said stupid things when they were drunk. People tended to say stupid things in general, really.

Draco had been saying stupid things all of his life, the spiteful side of him offered.

Draco had also apologised, the objective side returned.

Harry frowned. His head was throbbing worse than his injured arm, now.

By the time Draco finally emerged from the bathroom with all evidence of injury removed, he had taken twice the time Harry had allotted him, but Harry didn't comment on it. Instead, he stood up purposefully. Draco eyed him warily as he entered the kitchen, gripping his wand more tightly than was necessary.

'Listen, Malfoy,' he said. 'I don't remember exactly what happened, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry.'

Draco blinked at him. His gaze was still extremely wary but the death-grip he had on his wand loosened slightly. He tilted his head to the side, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. 'You're sorry,' he repeated slowly; there was a curious, but cautious edge to his voice.

'Yes,' Harry replied stiffly, shrugging. 'For hitting you,' he added quickly, 'and—well, I don't remember. Whatever. I'm sorry for whatever,' he said again. 'All right?'

Draco continued to look at him for another moment, then startled Harry with a smile that singularly transformed him from looking grey and taut to relaxed and oddly pleased.

'Yeah, all right,' Draco said easily and tossed his wand back to Harry, who caught it, looking bewildered. 'Sorry for chucking a chair at you.'

Harry nodded, eyes cast at the floor, feeling a bit awkward but considerably less guilty.

'You're still dripping, Potter,' Draco pointed out helpfully after a moment. Harry looked at up him, saw the smirk, and scowled. 'In fact,' Draco continued, eyes travelling down Harry's body to the floor, 'you're on your way to turning your kitchen into a pool. Towels,' he went on, smirk increasing at Harry's indignant glare, 'handy things, those. Very absorbent.'

'Shut up, Malfoy.'

Returning from getting dried and dressed, Harry had found Draco bent over a small cauldron on the stove, looking determined. He had said, 'Uh, Malfoy—' and then Draco had tossed him a corked vial and said, 'Drink.'

Harry decided that if Draco had wanted to kill him, he would have done it while he was passed out in the living room, or even during that night out in the woods at the Manor, where he'd had both their wands and nobody had had any idea where they were. He wouldn't have bothered with poisoning the potion; Harry drank it gratefully.

Oddly enough, Harry's apology seemed to have righted whatever wrong had occurred the night before, because after that, Draco had stopped flinching whenever Harry got too close. They were walking up the long gravel road between the estate gates and the mansion, and Draco had been talking animatedly—not that he ever talked _inanimately_—since they'd left his flat some five minutes ago and Apparated to the gate. His topics were changing as quickly and abruptly as television commercials and with about the same level of enthusiasm.

Harry was seriously beginning to reconsider cancelling his subscription to cable.

'Muggle cinema is the best thing ever invented,' Draco decided, nodding to himself. He was flourishing and gesticulating as he spoke. 'When I grow up, I want to be in a Muggle movie. I would be an instant success. I would be _fantastic_. I would be King on the mountain of Sex. Like whatshisname, that Marlo Brandi fellow.'

'Malfoy, I don't think "growing up" is a physical possibility for you.' As an afterthought, Harry added, 'And I think you mean Marlon Brando.'

Draco waved a hand dismissively. 'Don't trifle me with details, Potter. It's all so dynamic even when I have no idea what they're on about half the time,' he went on, looking wistful, 'but I could learn. I would be spectacular! I could make _millions_.'

Harry looked at him incredulously. 'Aren't you _already _a millionaire?'

'There you go with the petty details again,' Draco said irritably, shaking his head. 'And besides, it's _Muggle _money. It'd be like _building _my own empire instead of just inheriting one. I mean, think about it—I could become vastly affluent in the Muggle world based solely on my charm and allure! What could possibly be more fulfilling?'

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, deciding it would be pointless to argue. After all, he thought, if for some bizarre reason Draco actually _did _go in for an audition somewhere—well, he was certainly dramatic enough to be an actor, but even that aside, he'd probably be hired immediately for his looks alone.

'I hope it rains today,' Draco said, abruptly switching topics again, and Harry felt it might have annoyed him if he weren't already so used to Luna doing it. Draco was looking up at the sky with a longing expression on his face; it was overcast, but warm, and the wind was carrying the clouds away at a steady rate. It probably wouldn't rain.

Draco looked over at Harry very suddenly. 'You surprise me, Potter.'

Harry blinked at him, caught off-guard. 'What? Why?'

Draco shrugged, looking back up at the Manor as they plodded steadily towards it. 'I figured that, after your haste to get straight down to business during the interrogation, you'd have asked about the information you _really _want to know by now.'

He did not have to go into detail; Harry immediately knew what he was talking about. 'Yeah, well,' he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. 'I figure we'll get to it once this Yaxley business is over with. It's been a long few days.'

'Nearly a week,' Draco noted. 'And what do you know, we're both alive and still have all our limbs. Colour me surprised.'

Harry looked sideways at him. 'What did you expect?'

'Shackles. Beatings. Threats on my life at least thrice a day,' Draco said, grinning. 'Well, okay, at least a lot more wand-point-constantly-jabbing-my-back than hanging out at pubs and strolling side-by-side through my estate.'

'I did hit you,' Harry pointed out.

'Ah,' said Draco, 'but I hit you back for once. Rather well, might I add.'

'You hit me with a _chair_, Malfoy.'

'What did I tell you about details?' Draco said, dismissing this evidence with another wave of his hand. 'And by the way,' he added, 'just so you're aware, the next time you get sloshed and decide to box me, you'll be treated to seeing what a severely pissed-off stallion can do to a tiny flat when provoked.'

Harry had the vivid mental image of a white horse unceremoniously rampaging through his flat. That was bound to draw some unwanted attention from the Muggle authorities. 'Right,' he said. 'No more drunken brawls.'

'Agreed,' Draco said, nodding. 'I really don't fancy destroying your telly. I quite like the lesbian action.'

'You really need to stop watching porn,' Harry said, grimacing.

'Why?' Draco asked, completely shameless. 'It's educational.'

: : :

_No one will ever win the battle of the sexes;  
there's too much fraternizing with the enemy. _  
- Henry A. Kissinger

: : :

'Bloody buggering Bludgers,' Draco muttered haphazardly. 'Is it a collective Gryffindor handicap, having two left feet? Or just a really amazing coincidence?'

'Suck on an egg, Malfoy.'

It was only half-past nine, and Hermione was already feeling very frizzled. More frizzled than usual, and with her hair, that was saying something.

It had been bad enough to have Ron stumbling through her door in the middle of the night, breaking her sleep to quite literally pounce on her, only to shortly thereafter collapse in a comatose heap on her couch, leaving her fit to be tied. But to find him still there in the morning, sprawled face-down on her settee and drooling in quite a disgusting manner on her favourite throw pillow, had been the final stir that melted the cauldron; Hermione had doused him quite thoroughly with a Water-Summoning Spell and chased him out of her house, not even pausing to offer him a Sober-Up Potion.

'You know, that insult doesn't make any discernible sense,' Draco replied easily, twirling her again. She was supposed to end up on his right, with some insane pose involving one leg over his hip and her other leg stretched out behind her.

She missed.

'Bloody _hell_, Granger, I would _like _to have children someday. Mind your knees, for they are like Bludgers.'

'I would be doing the world a favour.'

Harry had, after sniggering far too much at her expense to be fair, buggered off to score some leftover breakfast. Draco had insisted Hermione fast with him, because she was 'going to need every millimetre' off her waist she could manage in order to get into the type of dress one wore for this sort of thing. 'Merlin's balls, Granger, what _is _it that you're attempting to do?'

'According to you,' Hermione snarled through gritted teeth, 'I am attempting to _tango_.'

'And failing. Miserably. Abdominally. Not even close to admirably. What the hell are those on your feet? You're not even wearing heels!' Draco all but dropped her in genuine shock mid-spin, and she had to cling to his shoulders to avoid having an abrupt meeting with the floor. 'Bugger, you are hopeless,' he said, sighing and staring at her rather neglected, flat-soled loafers. 'What kind of bird—even _Muggle _businesswomen wear _heels_, you complete pleb of a ninny.'

Hermione goggled at him. 'What did you just call me?'

'Pleb of a ninny,' he repeated effortlessly, standing up straight. She let go of his shoulders, and he dropped his hand from her hip. It went to his chin, instead, holding it poised in a thoughtful manner while he gave her several once-overs. 'Do you even _own _a dress?'

'Of course I own a dress,' she snapped. 'Several, in fact.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'And heels...?'

'No heels,' she said flatly. 'I have no insecurities about my height, certainly not enough to torture myself with three-inch pegs supporting my ankles.'

'Granger, you utterly philistine excuse for a woman, heels are not only for increasing your height,' Draco said with a very melodramatic amount of exasperation. 'That is, in fact, perhaps the least important motif. Heels were engineered to compliment your Venus-esque figure,' he explained as he appeared behind her in a flourish and, keeping a generous distance between his hands and her body, outlined the areas as he listed them off, 'your hips, your thighs, your ankles in particular; to accentuate the way you walk, to make that racy sashay come naturally; in short, to transform a pleb of a ninny into an ornate, regal lady that we must somehow convince a party full of aristocrats is actually a pure-blood daughter of a noble.'

'So what you're saying, is,' Hermione said icily, turning about to face him, 'you need me in heels in order to transform myself into an obsequious monolith that you can chisel into your ideal consort?'

Must to her disgust, he smiled brilliantly at her. 'Precisely. But let's at least get the steps down _without _you trying to bludgeon my bits, and then give the chisel a go, shall we?'

He held up a hand and, after a moment to remind herself why she was doing this, she slipped her palm into his.

Even all these years later, Hermione could still recall the look of collective horror on Harry and Ron's faces back in fourth year, when they had found out the Yule Ball required dancing; Harry, especially, when he learned he had to dance _first _in front of everyone. Even with the Patil sisters leading, they both had proven to the school at large how utterly craptastic they were at any sort of dancing, ballroom or otherwise. Hermione had seen several glimpses of Draco at the Ball, Pansy on his arm, but had been too preoccupied with Viktor (and later, Ron's jealousy fit) to pay any attention to whether the bastard Slytherin could do a decent waltz or not.

She had found that Draco was, to his credit, a fantastic dancer. Shouldn't be surprised, she reminded herself. But she was, honestly, rather taken off guard by the way he effortlessly preformed the steps for her, time and time again. The Malfoy she remembered, while elegant and pompous by default through breeding and upbringing, had lacked the certain grace this older version of him possessed; perhaps it was a trait gained with age, or a very impressive amount of practice. Probably a little of both.

'Snap like you _mean it_, darling. This isn't a country club we're performing for.'

_If only that grace extended to his mouth_, she thought bitterly.

'The only snapping I _mean _to do involves your neck, Malfoy,' she huffed, trying again.

'At least you've my cognomen back in order,' Draco pointed out with mild satisfaction.

'Oh, sorry, _Draco_,' she drawled. 'Are you as ashamed of your given name as we're amused by it?'

'_You _are the last person alive with the brass to take a crock at my name, _Hermione_,' Draco drawled as way of riposte; her first name sounded alien rolling off his tongue, and she realised, with some abruptness, that it was the first time she had ever heard him _use _it; 'and drawling really does not become you. Stick with sniping and those cute little huffs you do—yes, just like that,' he said, pleased, as she huffed rather indignantly, 'only try to get your nose a little higher in the air—there you are. Perfect. Spitting image of a nasty piece of pure-blood work already, and we haven't even broken out the chisel yet.'

Hermione glared at him. 'You are the most detestable, pompous little git I ever had the misfortune of meeting.'

'Your lucid attempts to get into my trousers notwithstanding,' he continued to drawl, 'mind you bring your knee _over _my hip, not just to it. Good girl.'

Fates be bloody well damned six ways to Sunday, Harry, halfway through an apple, wandered back into the ballroom just as she attempted this rather arduous undertaking. He stopped in the doorway and raised both his eyebrows suggestively, and she gave him a look that conveyed, quite clearly, Don't You Even Dare Comment, Harry Potter, Or I Will Hex Your Bits Off. Knowing full well the consequences of disobeying one of her looks, Harry just grinned that snarky, sideways grin that he got when he was pretending not to be, but was in all ways fulfilling the role of, an insufferable bastard, and took a seat on a nearby piano bench.

'Oi, Granger, eyes on the prize. That would be me, hello.' Draco smirked as she instinctively obeyed and looked at him before she realised what she was doing. 'Three steps, not three and a half, and swing with your hips, not your shoulders. Assuming you _have _hips under those atrocious things you claim to be robes.'

One insufferable bastard, Hermione could handle. Two was pushing it.

Draco lowered her into another dip; the movement was slow, and Draco's arms may as well have been steel supports guiding her down, but the glossy surface of the floor and the well-worn sole of her shoe had a disagreement, and she slipped. She would have hit the floor if Draco hadn't caught her, something he seemed to think better of after he'd done so, if the heavy sigh she heard was any indication, but he pulled her to her feet nonetheless. Then, to her complete and utter horror, he took her by the waist and pulled her sideways up against his side.

'You see this?' he demanded, pointing unnecessarily at the connection of their hips and thighs. '_This _is your centre of gravity when you're anything less than vertical. Unless you feel like crashing to the floor every dip, I suggest you get used to it. And this—' Hermione gaped as he seized the leg that was up against his by the inside of her knee, pulled it up and hooked it around the outside of his thigh, '—is how you merge with it.'

And before she could protest, or Harry could interject a comment he was obviously struggling to contain, Draco dipped her once again; truth be told, the movement did feel more natural and _much _more secure this way, using her knee as a literal hook around his thigh to hold the lower half of her body up. If it had been anyone else holding her, she would have been pleased.

As her neck tipped back and her forehead came in view of the floor, she heard him say over her, 'You know, with your hair, we could practically sweep the floor with you this way.'

Hermione waited until he'd pulled her back upright before snarling, 'This is all just a big joke to you, isn't it?'

'If only,' he drawled, sounding exasperated and releasing her. 'Look, Granger, if we're going to do this, we have to do it _right_. You cannot just _pretend _to be pure-blood to fool these people. They spend their entire lives singling out other people's flaws. You have to step, eat, dance, speak, breathe, strut, sneer and in all other ways _be _pure-blood, or they _will _know. You are coming at my side as my prospective—' ('Your _what_?' Hermione practically shrieked, and Harry choked on a mouthful of apple.) '—which will indubitably mean that every eligible nymphet will be out for your blood,' he continued firmly without pause, 'looking for any stain or blemish they can find to discredit you.'

'I think your ego is due in for a serious deflation,' Hermione told him firmly. 'You can't possibly be _that _popular.'

'Oh, can't I?' Draco raised an eyebrow at her. 'You did see the books, didn't you?'

'I...' Hermione blinked, and then scowled as that trademark Malfoy smirk appeared on his face. 'Well, that's just—completely, utterly—'

'Shallow?' he supplied. 'Yes, Granger. "Débutante" may as well be code for "gold digger". Anyway,' he continued, morphing his smirk into a provocative smile, and tipping her chin up with two delicate fingers, 'one can hardly deny that the assets that come with the dinero are worth coveting.'

She wrenched her chin away from him, snarling. 'Watchme.'

Draco folded his arms, sighing. 'I swear, you're as bloody cantankerous as my mother sometimes.'

'I would certainly hope Miss Granger receives that as a compliment,' said a coy voice from the doorway. Draco gave a start and Hermione whirled around to see that Narcissa had entered the room, dressed in a long, lavender dress made of several layers of a semi-translucent, silky material. She strode up to them, and Draco unfolded his arms, taking her hand as she offered it to him. 'Your biggest mistake,' she told Hermione, as Draco put his other hand on his mother's waist, 'is that you do not trust your partner. It is a foundation of all dances to do so. Observe.'

Hermione backed up to give them room. She suddenly realised whyDraco was a fantastic dancer; if he was fantastic, Narcissa was incredible—she almost made Draco look mediocre, and it was obvious he had trouble keeping up with her as she moved. The dip—the part Hermione had been struggling with the most—was performed perfectly, hips and legs locked just as Draco had shown her. It was also slightly perturbing to watch; the tango was a very erotic dance—but the pair performed seamlessly, at ease through what looked like a lot of practise together.

After a third go, Narcissa released her son, and motioned for Hermione to join him. 'You have only today to become comfortable dancing with my son,' she said lightly, 'so I suggest you both cut the banter and get to work.'

Draco held out a hand and, reminding herself once again whyshe was doing this, Hermione slipped her palm into his.

: : :

Hermione already knew how to waltz. She knew the basics of a handful of other slow dances in addition, having learned as much as one possibly could about ballroom dancing in the library in her fourth year. After all, she did not want to show up on the arm of a national league Quidditch player/Triwizard Champion/Durmstrang representative and stumble over her feet. She had spent the weeks preceding the Yule Ball locked in the girls' dormitory with Lavender and Parvati, taking turns learning to slow-dance with each other. A girl had to be prepared, after all.

She'd been glad then that she'd practised; Viktor had been very impressed with her dancing. She was glad now, too, because like the waltz, the tango had all the same basic principles that most ballroom dances shared. Once she got the basic steps down and succeeded in the much more difficult task of _allowing Malfoy to touch her_, she'd picked it up rather fast. By one o'clock in the afternoon, Draco stopped complaining about left-footedness and sped things up, having her practise the steps full-speed with him to music over and over again until she could do it with her eyes closed and without being led.

By mid-afternoon her stomach had grown so loud that Draco had relented long enough for her to wolf a very meagre meal before going at it again. She wasn't just learning to dance, but how to be properly presented for a début; how to float down the stairs, how to hold Draco's arm in hers, how to speak, how to walk, how to _look_, what to say, and, more importantly, what _not _to. With Narcissa wandering in and out periodically, and Harry surrounded by a growing collection of books—delivered from the library via house-elf—to keep him occupied, Draco kept Hermione at it well into nightfall. It was all extremely tiring, and Hermione had been positively thrilled to hear Narcissa announce, 'Enough, she needs a decent night's sleep to look the part', and shuffle her out of the room.

Hermione had retreated back to the room she'd used the last night she'd stayed at the Manor—a small, plain, but nonetheless elegant guest room on the first floor—and intended to pass out immediately. Her feet were incredibly sore from dancing all morning, even in flat soles, and she had a terrible headache and stiff back from attempting to learn how to be a proper lady all afternoon. Narcissa made looking 'proper' far, far too easy; _how _she managed to look immaculate, sit straight-backed, stand poised and float along like she was walking on clouds all day, every day, was a mystery to Hermione, who was quite used to running about in a frenzy, books and quills given more concern than her hair, dress and complexion put together.

She was a little more than surprised to find a house-elf waiting patiently outside the room she'd used the other night. It wasn't Nivens, who seemed to have taken over Dobby's old job as the chief house-elf; most of the others kept out of sight and out of the way. This was one of them—a female, from the looks of it, with huge, bulging blue eyes, dressed in a lilac pillowcase with a matching bow (made of what appeared to be a bit of tissue paper) on her hairless head. She had a small nose and unusually wide ears, and looked a bit like an upright, very skinny, very tiny baby elephant.

'Erm,' Hermione said. 'Hello.'

'Master wishes Miss to come with Bitsy,' said the house-elf, bowing so low her ears touched the floor. 'Bitsy is to take Miss upstairs to her new room.'

Hermione blinked. 'New room?'

'Master insists,' Bitsy said. 'Bitsy spent all day making it fit for Miss!'

'Oh,' Hermione said, smiling uncertainly. 'Erm. Well, thank you—you didn't have to—'

'Master insisted!' Bitsy told her again, but she looked pleased. 'Bitsy was very happy to make Miss' room!'

'Did he?' Hermione muttered under her breath, but she smiled down at the house-elf. 'Well, since you've already done it... I might as well.'

Bitsy beamed at her. She led Hermione upstairs and in the opposite direction of Draco's room, down the east wing. At the very end, she held open a door that led into a suite that looked nearly as big as Draco's room had been, but this one was in order, and much more—well, there was no other word for it—_feminine_. Soft pastel purples and blues were the predominant colours, warmed by the several oil lamps arranged around the room. Off to the right there was a door, half-ajar and casting a warm strip of light across the floor, leading into what looked like a private bathroom. The bed was enormous, lacking posts but laden with enough pillows to serve as a nest for a Hippogriff.

'This is Miss Cassandra's old room,' Bitsy informed Hermione as she led her inside. 'Bitsy has brought up Miss' things,' she continued, pointing to the small pile of belongings in the corner.

'Oh, wow—wait—' Hermione stopped and looked down at her. 'Miss Cassandra? Lucius' sister?'

It was as if the words had flipped a switch; Bitsy squeaked and shuddered, shaking her head furiously. 'Miss shouldn't ask questions about her, Miss—Bitsy can't say—Bitsy has promised—'

Bitsy made to run her head into the wardrobe, but Hermione quickly grabbed the back of her pillowcase and held firm. 'I'm sorry! Bitsy, please—' She squatted down to look the house-elf in the eyes, which were watering. 'It's all right—you don't need to—I didn't know.' Bitsy gave a huge sniff and blew her nose in the pillowcase; Hermione quickly dropped it, but tried to smile reassuringly. 'Thank you, Bitsy, for preparing the room. It's beautiful.'

Bitsy gave her a wide, teary-eyed gaze. 'Miss is too kind to Bitsy! Bitsy is just doing Master's bidding! Miss should thank Master, not Bitsy!'

'Oh, nonsense,' Hermione said, making a mental note to later have a word with Malfoy about his treatment of house-elves while he was under her supervision. 'Thank you, Bitsy,' she said again.

Bitsy sniffed again but smiled at her. 'Miss should come this way,' she said, leading Hermione into the—as she'd suspected—private bathroom.

Hermione's jaw dropped.

The room itself was nearly as large as the bedroom, looking much like an ornate cave that had been carved in a single block of highly-polished, creamy-coloured marble. The tub at the back was the size of a jacuzzi, overflowing with enormous yellow and peach bubbles, and smelt strongly of citrus. Arranged around the edge of the tub were an assortment of bottles and jars—which all looked exorbitantly pricey and featured labels written in French—and about a dozen candles floating in a half-circle above it, casting a yellow glow on everything.

And on the small table by the tap was a fine silver tray, boasting a crystal wine glass and an entire bottle of chilled _Clos du Mesnil_.

Hermione continued to gape. That _bastard_.

'Miss?' Bitsy prompted nervously.

Hermione snapped out of her brief reverie (she had been imagining seizing the bottle of Krug, storming down the hall to Draco's room and proceeding to shove it somewhere very uncomfortable) and blinked down at the house-elf. 'You did... all of this? By yourself?'

Bitsy positively beamed. 'Miss likes it?'

'It's... ' Hermione's propriety, absolutely refusing to accept anything that wasn't strictly necessary from 'Master Malfoy', was waging a fierce battle against her Inner Woman, which was determined to be spoiled. She looked longingly at the champagne, the bath, and the cosmetics in turn. Her Inner Woman was putting up one hell of a fight. '...it's wonderful, Bitsy. You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble, really.'

'No trouble, Miss!' Bitsy said happily, cracking open the bottle with a snap of her tiny fingers and pouring Hermione a glass before bouncing off to fetch a fluffy bathrobe, calling, 'Master insisted!'

Hermione sighed, resigned to her fate, and began to shrug off her robes, muttering, 'Your "Master" is a beguiling little bastard...'

_...and he's playing me like a bloody fiddle._

: : :

'Feeling better?' Luna asked as Harry walked into the kitchen that morning.

She was wearing a hideously orange _Cannons _t-shirt that Ron had given her last Christmas and skin-tight, lime-green trousers. Little yellow birds hung from her earrings, twittering madly whenever she moved her head. Harry smiled at her. 'Yeah. It's stopped throbbing, anyway.'

'That's good,' Luna said mildly, sipping at a glass of something green and very thick. 'Are you going to see Draco today?'

'Yeah, the ball's tonight,' Harry said, offhandedly.

'Ooh, good,' Luna said, brightening. 'I'll come with you then.'

'Come with me where?' he asked, looking up at her. 'To the Manor?'

'Yes,' she said, looking at him. 'Why? Is that all right?'

'Oh,' he said, shrugging. 'Yeah, that's fine. I thought you meant the ball.'

'You're going to the ball?'

'That's the plan.'

'I thought you were off-duty?'

Harry grinned into the refrigerator, looking for the cream. 'Doesn't mean I won't be going.' Having a second thought, he left the cream and started the kettle.

'So Daddy was going over the report,' Luna said in the background as he dug around for something to eat; Dobby must have been keeping Winky company while Hermione was at the Manor. 'He has a few inquiries before we print this month's edition.'

'Oh?' Harry said, not really listening.

'He's curious as to whether or not you and Draco are going to have a prenuptial agreement,' she went on, 'seeing as he's very independently wealthy and all.'

'I—_what_?' Harry said, then cursed as he spilt hot water on the bench. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

It was a question he often wanted to ask Luna, but he rarely bothered to do so; here and now, however, it seemed appropriate. She turned her gaze from the window to him, blinking once, very slowly. 'The engagement, of course.'

'_What _engagement?'

'The one you two told the Prophet reporters about,' she said simply.

'I—what?' Harry demanded again. 'Oh, I am going to _kill _him.'

'There's no need to be embarrassed about it,' Luna said, shrugging and looking back out the window. 'I think it's kind of sweet, actually.'

'Luna,' he said, trying to be patient, 'this is very important. I need you to listen to me. Are you listening? We're not engaged. We're not—hell—we're not _anything_.'

'Are you sleeping with him?'

'What? No!'

'Ah,' she said, still gazing out the window dreamily. 'Waiting until after the marriage? That's very romantic. Not enough people are romantic these days, you know.'

'It's not romantic! It's not anything!'

'I already _know_, Harry,' she said patiently. 'Please stop shouting. I don't blame you. Draco's very good-looking.'

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. 'Luna, look,' he tried to reason desperately—not that reason was ever anything other than desperate around Luna—'we're not involved. Malfoy was joking. I don't even—'

'What about your affair at Hogwarts?'

'We didn't have an affair at Hogwarts!'

'Didn't you?' she asked. 'Sixth year? You were following him around left and right, everybody noticed...' If Luna had been looking at him, she'd have seen his jaw drop. 'I mean, I figured that's why you asked me to the Christmas party,' she went on; 'since you couldn't ask him, you know. But he snuck in on his own afterwards, and then the two of you disappeared after that,' she continued dreamily. 'And then you got into that fight towards the end of term; Pansy Parkinson said you'd gone and tried to kill him.'

She looked at him. 'Did he cheat on you? Was that it? I did think I'd seen him with that Zabini bloke a few times... I told everyone you two had probably broken up, and then you started going out with Ginny, and that was it before the whole Incident.'

'We weren't—' Harry began, then stopped himself, horrified that, by her account, the implications were very obvious, no matter how untrue. 'I was following him because I knew he was up to something—you can't publish that!'

Actually, pointed out an annoying little voice in his head, considering half the things published in _The Quibbler_ were rubbish, the notion that he and Malfoy were an item would fit right in.

He told that voice to shut the fuck up.

'Luna, please. I don't even _like _Malfoy.'

'Don't you?' she asked, looking back at him. When he shook his head fervently, she raised her eyebrows, making her eyes look even bigger. 'Then why did you help him?'

'I... felt sorry for him,' Harry admitted, pinching his eyebrows together. 'But we're not—Malfoy was _joking_, we're not—anything. Really.'

Luna smiled the indulgent smile she gave people whenever she thought that theywere insane and was trying to placate, and Harry suddenly realised that she'd already made up her mind.

She shrugged and looked back out the window. 'Whatever you say, Harry.'

: : :

Hermione was experiencing a very odd dream in which she was wearing a frilly tutu and Pansy Parkinson was trying to convince her that pink was just not her colour. Narcissa kept twirling her and then letting her fall, only to land in the arms of Draco, who was wearing a Muggle tux.

She was jarred out of the dream by a nearby voice that snapped, 'I do _not _capitulate to my mother's mandate, you pretentious little tart.'

Hermione's eyes flew open and she sat up, and then quickly yanked the covers up to her chin. Draco was lying beside her on his stomach, head and neck propped up on his palms down at the other end of the bed, with his legs bent at the knees, ankles crossed in the air. He had spread the contents of her bag at the foot of the bed, and was rifling through her journal as if he had every right to be doing so.

She gaped at him. 'Malfoy! Just what in Merlin's glory do you think you're doing?'

'And I most certainly do _not_,' he continued, throwing her a sharp look back over his shoulder, 'have low self-esteem. I have _spectacular _self-esteem. Have you _seen _me? Honestly.'

Hermione wondered if her jaw was beginning to come unhinged; she was finding herself gaping more and more often these days. 'I beg to differ,' she told him shortly. 'You've read the notes, haven't you?'

'Oh, yes,' he sneered, but it was half-hearted. '"Head down, little eye-contact, reserved, inordinately prudent".' He gave her another sharp look. 'Which I find extremely hypocritical coming from _you_, of all people.'

Hermione narrowed her eyes. 'I beg your pardon?'

'How many months in advance did you prepare for exams?' Hermione stopped short of answering automatically; Draco, looking smug, continued on rapid-fire. 'Did you read every text back-to-front before term even began? Did you have the timetable memorised before your Head of House even passed them out?' He smirked at the slightly agape, stunned expression she knew she must be wearing. 'And you call _me _prudent. Anyway,' he went on, 'my self-esteem is _quite _all right, thanks very much.'

'Is that so?' she said sceptically, raising an eyebrow. 'How do you define "quite all right", then?'

'By informing you that I don't give a Flobberworm's arse what any of you proletarians think of me.'

'So you just lower your expectations to the point they're already met,' she muttered to herself, as he turned back to her journal. 'Don't you have anything better to be doing than rummaging through my things?' she asked him.

'No, not really,' he remarked absently. Then, 'Enjoy the bath?'

She had been just about to order him out of the room when this question quelled the urge. 'Erm,' she said instead, remembering. 'Yes. I. Well—' she cleared her throat. 'It was nice. Thank you.'

'Welcome,' came the short reply. He was flipping backward a few pages, reading another passage; he pulled his head back a little, as if surprised. He looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. 'By the way, what's this "accident" you keep referring to?'

With a constrained shriek, Hermione abandoned the safety of the covers, and attacked him with her pillow. She tried to snatch her journal as he recoiled, holding up the book as a shield. 'You nosey, arrogant, insufferable little—argh!'

'Bloody hell!' Draco did not leap off the bed as she'd hoped, but instead seized the pillow and threw _that _off, well out of her reach. 'Good to see you've got so much energy this morning, you're going to need it if you expect to be fit for tonight.' She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, he'd thrown something light and soft over her head. 'Be a good girl and put that on. And hurry, will you? It's already after ten, you sleep like a ruddy log.'

Hermione pulled the fabric off her head and saw that it was actually a dress, made of some shimmering, clearly premium material; and with a shock so staggering it rendered her momentarily speechless, she realised that it was the exactsame periwinkle-blue colour of the robes she'd worn to the Yule Ball.

She looked up at Draco, who was smirking at her. 'Malfoy—how did you—it's been ages—you _remember_?'

'Rather hard to forget the first time I realised you were, in fact, of the female variety,' he said with a shrug. 'Especially considering Pansy was so enraged that she would not _shut up_ about it for the rest of the holidays.'

'Really?' Oh, ye gods, was she _blushing_? She cleared her throat again, trying to disguise her surprised and slightly embarrassed expression within her hair. This, she thought, is why Draco was so bloody insufferable; he managed to make everyone around him feel inadequate while, at the same time, flattering them enough that they couldn't feel indignant about it.

'The colour suits you,' Draco said simply. He had lain back down on his stomach and resumed digging through her effects. 'Chop chop, Granger. Party's at six and judging by the volume of your hair, we'll need most of between then and now to tame it.'

She blinked at him. 'You can't expect me to with _you—_' she stopped mid-sentence as Draco, eyes still on her journal, pointed across the room at an oriental screen in the corner. She huffed. 'I don't suppose telling you to leave would do any good?'

'No, but feel free to try if it makes you feel better,' he informed her cheerfully, peering back at her. 'Don't worry, I've no desire to see you in your skivvies. But I came in here three _hours _ago and tried to wake you, and you threw your bag at me and told me to "scram"—and judging by the look on your face, you were still very unconscious at the time—' he smirked and turned back to reading, '—so I decided to let you sleep in. But now Mother says if you're not up and dressed in twenty minutes, she'll be up here to do it _for _you, and trust me when I say that the woman is _not _very gentle.'

Grabbing a robe off the bed stool, Hermione wrapped herself in it quickly, even though Draco was apparently more interested in reading through her journal than paying her any attention. She took the dress to the screen in the corner, which was generously wide but not very tall—her forehead was even with the top—and disrobed, pulled off her nightdress, and then saw that behind the screen with her there was a small chair and a vanity dresser. There were also several other articles piled on the chair, arranged as if someone had set them out specifically for her.

As if reading her mind, she heard Draco's voice: 'And make sure you put those _on_, Granger. Mother guessed your size but says she'll adjust them later if they're off.'

Hermione felt her cheeks burn; there was a white, silk corset and a matching pair of pants, accompanied by a small slip to go over them, and a dainty pair of strappy heels that matched the fabric of the dress. The fact that Draco had obviously _seen _all of this and intended for her to wear them in spite of this ruffled her more than the fact that he'd arranged for the pampering the night before, or even that he'd come in that morning and rifled through all of her things. Just who in the hell did he think he—

'Oh, and when I said twenty minutes,' came Draco's drawl from beyond the screen, 'that was twenty minutes fifteen minutes ago, just so you know. Hop-to.'

Hopping-to in this case, she discovered, was easier said than done. After two minutes of fumbling, Hermione grumbled in exasperation, picked up her wand, and tapped the stitches going up the back of the corset. She felt the cords tighten themselves comfortably around her torso and then pulled on the slip; the fabric was so sheer and soft, it was like lying inside a cocoon of thick rabbit fur, but thin enough that it may as well have been made of tissue paper.

'Well?'

Hermione jumped; Draco's voice was directly on the other side of the screen. 'Bugger,' she muttered, quickly picking up the blue dress and tossing it over her head. Several seconds of vigorous wiggling and gentle tugging got it down around her waist. She looked down and made a face. 'This slit can _not_ be considered proper.'

'Are you decent?' Draco's head tilted around the edge of the screen, glancing at her. 'Good enough. And yes, of course it's proper. It only comes up to your thigh.'

'The _top _of my thigh,' she corrected him. 'Almost to my _hip_.'

'Yes, well,' Draco conceded, giving her a quick once-over. 'You'll need the legroom to get your knee up here—' he tapped his own hip, '—and what do you know, you _do _have hips. _And _breasts. Not bad, Granger—ow! Fucking hell, learn to take a compliment!'

Hermione, now beyond the edge of her patience, seized another brush off the dresser and waved it threateningly, shrieking 'Out!', and effectively chased him from the room.

When she finally came downstairs, barefoot and carrying the heels, Narcissa was waiting for her in the dining room. She treated Hermione to a very quick, light lunch while Draco went to get himself ready, before herding her back upstairs to the master bedroom. Hermione gazed around the room, wondering if it had been this plain compared to the rest of the house while Lucius had been sharing it.

She was abruptly torn from her pondering as Narcissa stopped in front of a wide, full-length mirror, turned around and in a commanding voice said, 'Strip.'

Hermione goggled at her. 'Excuse me?'

'Go on.' Narcissa folded her arms impatiently. 'I had him bring that up to make sure it fit, but you're kidding yourself if you think getting ready for your début is as easy as a bubble bath and a fancy pair of shoes.' She tapped her foot. 'Now _strip_.'

It was hard enough, Hermione thought, for any woman to stand fully clothed in the same room as Narcissa Malfoy and not feel inadequate. She quickly discovered it was quite impossible to do so in one's knickers.

Narcissa was looking her over with a critical eye, arms folded, wand tapping her chin idly as she circled Hermione like a hungry hyena. After about two minutes of this and with the urge to cover herself with her hands growing unbearable, Hermione cleared her throat.

'Hush,' Narcissa ordered curtly. Hermione narrowed her eyes, but before she could think of something to say, Narcissa looked up at her, hands on her hips. 'Well, I suppose it could be worse; Muggle stock or not, you're not completely unfortunate-looking.'

_Ah_, Hermione thought. So this was where Draco got his talent at under-handed compliments.

'All right,' Narcissa ordered, ushering her towards the bathroom. 'Let's see what I can do with you.'

: : :

'About bloody time!'

Draco accosted Harry before he could get in the front door. Luna, drifting idly behind him, waved vaguely at Draco; he looked extremely irate, but this wasn't really anything new.

'It's only four-thirty,' Harry said in his own defence.

'Look, Potter,' Draco snapped, 'there are slightly more important things than trying to cover up your little affair with the lunatic. Like, for instance, my _hair_. Do you realise how long it takes to get ready for a ball? Oh, wait, no, you don't. Because you are a plebeian _tit_.'

'We weren't—' Harry began, then stopped as Luna smiled indulgently at him and mouthed, where Draco couldn't see her, what looked suspiciously like 'He's _jealous_! That's so cute!'. Harry wished he'd have a coronary. He decided not to pursue that subject. 'You said the party's not till six—'

'It's not, Potter,' Draco said irritably. 'But I need time to get ready for it, and if you remember, _you _have my wand, so—' he held out his hand, '—if you don't mind.'

'Why didn't you use your mum's?'

'Believe me, I tried; she's been in her room with Granger since noon,' Draco said crossly. 'It's bad enough when they shriek at you on their own. They're like bloody harpies when they go at it together. And it's actually about five, now, so—' he snapped the fingers of the hand still extended to Harry, '—wand, Potter.'

Harry made a face, pulling out the milky-coloured wand, and, after a moment's hesitation, handed it over. 'Would it kill you to say "please" once in a while?'

'I don't intend to find out,' Draco told him, quickly snatching the wand from him, doing an abrupt about-face and stalking away.

'I'm going to go see how Hermione's doing,' Luna announced, winking in a very suggestive manner. 'Give you two some _alone _time.'

Harry had terrible, terrible friends.

Glaring, Harry turned and followed Draco into the house. He was walking very quickly, and though Harry was determined not to jog to keep up, his fast pace barely kept him close enough on Draco's tail to follow him through a maze of rooms upstairs before coming to a stop in a small, brightly lit study. There was a huge dresser with what looked like hundreds of bottles and boxes and jars piled on top of it at one end, next to that was a built-in closet, and the opposite wall was composed of one gigantic mirror.

By the time Harry caught up, Draco was already at the dresser, wand waving idly, moving jars and bottles to and fro. Harry wandered over, eyes taking in the room, before stopping just behind him.

Harry stared at the reflection he could see in the mirror.

'What are you—' He stopped when he saw Draco's eyes look up in the mirror, focusing on Harry's reflection, before giving a dramatic roll. It wasn't that it was overdone, or anything, but Harry had spent enough time with Draco in the last several days to notice the difference the cosmetics had made; there was an even, dark outline around his eyelids, and something about his skin was warmer, more toned.

'Don't you have Aurory things to be doing?' Draco inquired. He was studying his reflection with such concentration that Harry was sure he'd give himself a headache. 'Death Eaters to bag, Dark Magic to defeat, Dark Lords to smite, etcetera?'

Harry indicated his arm in the mirror. 'Gawain won't let us work injured. Not even to smite Dark Lords.' He stood behind Draco in the mirror, leaning on the dresser with his good hand. 'What are you doing?'

Draco glanced sideways at his reflection, trying to look irritated, but the small twist to his lips betrayed his amusement. 'And people wonder why you're single,' he remarked absently, twirling his wand idly. Harry watched with his head tilted to the side as Draco's hair began to sort itself out of its own accord. 'Skirts tend to notice when you make the effort. Pass that, would you?'

Harry handed him the blue bottle he'd indicated, and Draco tapped it with his wand; it emitted a shimmering mist of something that smelled sharp and sweet, like if you'd sniffed the top of newly poured and still bubbling champagne. The mist floated up into the air and disappeared into his hair, adding an empyreal, golden hue to it. Draco made a face and ran his hands through his hair, gossamer strands tangling in his fingers as he brushed it this way and that, until, with a muttered 'bugger', he flicked his wand again. His hair instantly fell back into place, minus the gold undertone.

'I didn't think you'd want birds to notice,' Harry said casually, amused by the disgruntled look on Draco's face as he attacked his hair again, this time with a green bottle.

Draco paused in his ministrations and met Harry's eyes in their reflections. He had a curious expression, one Harry couldn't quite classify, but he seemed to be weighing something carefully before responding. 'Why do you say that?'

'I thought you were worried your mum was trying to buy you a wife,' Harry answered, raising his eyebrows. 'What did you think I meant?'

Draco shrugged. 'Just seems odd to ask a bloke who's spent the last four years with only his hand for company why he'd want a skirt to notice him.' Harry made a disgusted face in the mirror. Draco smirked. 'Well, you _asked_.'

'And I'm sorry I did.' Harry rolled his eyes as, once again, Draco muttered 'bugger' and tossed the green bottle aside, then dug around until he'd found a white one. 'I don't know why you're bothering. You look fine.'

'Coming from someone who wore clothes eight sizes too large, sorry if I don't take your word for it.'

'Those were my _cousin's_, it's not like I had a choice.'

'Potter.' Draco put the bottle and his wand down, and actually turned around to look Harry in the eye. 'You _did _have your own money. My father had tags on the contents of half the Gringotts vaults. I _know _how much gold your parents left you. You could have bought your own bloody clothes.'

Harry shrugged. 'Why waste the gold? I didn't know anything about clothes or shopping for them. And I really don't give a damn what I'm wearing.'

'It shows,' Draco replied, turning back to face the mirror. 'Anyway, what _else _do you have to waste gold on? I swear, one of these days I'm going to Stun your arse and dress you in something respectable. It's bloody painful, looking at you sometimes. Pass that—no, the red one—cheers.'

The red bottle seemed to do the trick; Harry couldn't specifically identify the difference, but whatever it was gave his white-blonde tresses an achromatic glow, much like the first blue bottle but less intense, and when he ran his hand through his hair, the way it moved and fell into place was like he was running his hands through silk strands. Combined with the added definition to his eyes and skin, he looked...stunning.

Draco observed him staring and smirked at Harry's reflection.

'See?' he said smugly. 'Even _you _notice.'

Harry rolled his eyes again, ignoring the sudden hot collar he was suffering from. 'You look the same as you always do,' he said. 'Like a git.'

Draco, ignoring his last comment, turned around to face him, leaning back on the dresser top with both hands. 'Either you're trying to compliment me—' ('Hardly.') '—or you're appallingly besotted and in denial. Or you're blind, which, considering the specs, is probably the case.'

'Sod off.'

'Ooh, you're blushing, Potter.' Draco smirked at him, looking amused. 'And people say glamour charms are a waste of gold.'

A knock at the door saved Harry from having to reply. The door opened a crack and Luna's head emerged through it. 'I thought I heard you in here,' she said to Harry. Then she looked at Draco, and blinked—which was worth noting, because Luna rarely blinked on purpose. 'Hullo, Draco. You look very nice.'

Draco smiled brilliantly at Harry. 'The woman has taste! I like her more already.'

'Your mum says she'll be ready for you in about ten minutes,' Luna continued, opening the door wider and drifting inside. She was staring at the ceiling while she spoke. 'She also said to tell you to use the red bottle, not any of the others, because you always think you know better but you don't, and if you waste all of her charms again she's going to forbid you from ever using them in the future.'

Harry gave Draco a look. His smirk faltered and he cleared his throat. 'Of course I used the red one. Wouldn't dream of wasting her charms. I used the red one, right, Potter?'

'That depends,' Harry said, smirking. 'Do you mean before or after you went through the lot?'

Draco glared at him. 'Pillock.'

'Git,' Harry replied automatically.

'Arse.'

'Fop.'

Draco snorted. 'You _wish_.'

'Hermione looks very nice, too,' Luna continued dreamily, oblivious to their banter.

The frown increased. 'Better than me?' Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.

Luna looked down from the ceiling and fixed her unblinking gaze on him. 'Yes, I would say so.'

Draco's frown downgraded to a scoff. 'I recant: you have no taste. I withdraw favour of your person. Begone, insipid wench.'

She blinked at him again, and Harry raised his eyebrows; only Draco Malfoy could draw _two _blinks from Luna Lovegood in the span of sixty seconds.

Draco looked indignant that his orders were not being followed. 'Be gone, woman! No, really, I mean it. I need to change, and I fear my divine beauty may blind you.'

Luna looked suddenly startled, as if she believed him. 'What about Harry?'

'Harry's already blind, love,' Draco assured her, herding her towards the door. 'And extremely thick anyhow, and thus immune to my wit and charms. Now _shoo_.'

Watching Luna leave, Harry felt slightly insulted, then realised what Draco had just said.

'You just called me Harry,' Harry told him.

Draco waved a dismissive hand, as if to ward off a fly. 'You're being delusional again, Potter. Now be a chap and turn around.' There was a thoughtful pause and Draco looked at him, smirking. 'Unless, of course, I was right and you _do _like to watch. In which case, feel free.'

Rolling his eyes, Harry turned around and faced the wall that wasn't mirrored.

He heard a rustle of fabric, and then Draco's voice again. 'So what's your deal with Loony?'

'Don't call her that,' Harry replied automatically, narrowing his eyes at the wall. 'And what do you mean, what's my deal with her?'

'I mean, if you're not dating her, then why is she popping in and out of your place at odd hours?'

Harry heard the sound of a zip. 'We're just friends.'

Another pause. 'With benefits?'

'What? No! Jesus, Malfoy.'

'Don't get your wand in a knot, Potter. I mean, if you ignore the fact that she's a—completely insane, b—physically incapable of blinking and c—colour blind to a frightening degree, she's not a bad-looking bird.'

'I think four years of isolation has lowered your standards.'

'Probably. Granger, then?'

'Hah. No.'

A pause. 'Weasley?'

Harry smirked at the wall. 'Which one?'

'Oh, God.' Draco was making horrible gagging noises somewhere behind him. 'I did not need that mental image.'

Harry decided he'd been cruel enough. 'No, no Weasleys.'

'Chang?'

Harry hesitated. 'Well, that depends. Before or after Hogwarts?'

He heard Draco chuckle, a soft, low sound deep in his throat. 'You sly dog.'

'There was nothing "sly" about it, trust me.'

'Coming from you? Colour me surprised. Chang's a babe, though. Or was, anyway. All right, I'm done.'

Harry turned around and saw Draco standing with his back to him, looking at himself in the mirror-wall. He was wearing his dress robes now; they were similar to those he'd worn fourth year for the Yule Ball, black with the high collar, making him look remarkably like a vicar. Only upon closer inspection, Harry could see these were not velvet, but of some matte, crisp material.

Overall, they suited him incredibly well. Harry, at least, had never managed to look that good wearing anything in the least formal. He was more of a jeans and Quidditch-robes type of bloke.

'She still is,' Harry confirmed for him.

'Duly noted,' Draco replied, cocking his head to the side and looking himself over in the mirror-wall. His eyes briefly flickered to Harry's in the mirror. 'Any good?'

Harry gave a non-committal shrug. 'No complaints.'

Draco turned around and looked at him then. 'So then what was the problem?'

'Beg pardon?'

'Well, you're very obviously single.'

'Ah. Er…' Harry paused, frowning. He didn't want to explain, so kept it vague. 'Suffice to say I thought she'd be over the whole ordeal after three years, and I was very wrong.'

Draco stared at him. 'She brought up Diggory with you,' he said flatly.

Harry shrugged again. 'We... didn't last long.'

'Define "long".'

Harry frowned again. 'Er. A week.'

Draco laughed again. 'Define long, I say. A week, he replies.'

'I've dated people for longer than a week,' Harry said defensively.

'How many?'

'Ginny.'

Draco raised both eyebrows. 'How many since you left school?'

Harry winced. 'Er... One. Sort of.'

'So you've dated a _person _for longer than a week. And sort of,' Draco corrected for him, shaking his head. 'Good lord, Potter. Has your entire sex life been one-night stands?'

'My entire sex life is none of your business,' Harry pointed out. 'And we should probably go see how Hermione's doing. It's been more than ten minutes.'

Draco was still snickering about Harry's assumed numerous illicit trysts when they entered the master bedroom. It was easily twice the size of Draco's room, though much more sparsely decorated. It really didn't even look lived in, aside from the cosmetics cluttering the sideboard in the corner. Hushed, rapid voices were audible from behind the closed bathroom door.

'Don't knock,' Draco warned in an undertone. 'Harpies. Shrieking. Ear-piercing.'

It was only another minute or so before the voices stopped and the bathroom door opened. When Hermione first stepped into the bedroom, Harry gaped at her.

'Well,' Draco said, sounding impressed. A grin snaked its way onto his face. 'Mum's a bloody miracle worker.'

Harry would have agreed, had his jaw and vocal chords been in working order.

It was hard to pick a part of her to focus on; he gathered rather quickly that her tan had been removed, leaving her skin pale and glowing, and that she was wearing a strapless dress that was approximately the colour of the sky on a cloudless summer afternoon. She was _sparkling_—the dress itself, the thick necklace of diamonds and aquamarine strung around her neck, the highlights in her hair... and her _hair_, which had gone from dark and bushy to mousy-brown and done up in an elaborate chignon, wisps hanging down and curling around her ears and cheekbones, framing her face.

What really threw him off, though, was her face. He'd been expecting an extensive amount of make-up and countless glamour charms, but at first glance it looked as if she had taken a butterfly the same colour as her dress and stuck the wings over her eyes. The pattern was painted on in a delicate, masquerade-esque fashion, with matching lipstick and a small 'V' on the centre of her forehead. Despite this, it looked anything but strange—simply put, it looked _fantastic _on her.

A single, long slit ran up her left leg right to her hip, exposing it from ankle to thigh, and the dress material hugged her form so tightly, it left very little to the imagination. Ron would have suffered an aneurysm. Harry himself was having no luck in closing his mouth, much less in forming a coherent train of thought.

'You know, I make a lot of uncomplimentary remarks about shoddy Muggle stock, but,' Draco said, sounding as if it pained him to admit it, 'God damn.'

Harry felt this to be a rather gross understatement, but still lacked the necessary facilities to tell him so.

'When you're both quite finished,' Hermione said. She sounded annoyed, but Harry knew better; it was the tone she used to avoid sounding embarrassed or flattered—in this case, probably both. Harry dragged his eyes back up to her face and she blushed; Harry idly wondered how much Ron would pay for the memory. She looked quickly at Draco, who was smirking and looking entirely unperturbed by her allure. 'Your mother wants you in the bathroom.'

Draco made a face. 'Oh, I _bet _she does. Here—' he handed her a rolled-up parchment, '—your details. Read, memorise, etcetera—you're good at that, aren't you?'

Hermione took the parchment and Draco, looking incredibly smug, vanished into the bathroom, quickly closing the door behind him.

She took one look at the parchment before her eyes widened, and she let out a shriek. 'That _bastard_!'

Harry, finally snapping out of his stupor, snapped to attention. 'What is it?'

Hermione ignored him, whirling so quickly that her skirt flew up around her knees.

'_Barbie_?' she demanded furiously at the bathroom door. 'You've named me _Barbie_?'

: : :

'Oh, it's a _lovely _name,' Draco insisted, still wearing that incredibly smug smirk. 'And it fits you so _well_.'

'I cannot believe you,' Hermione told him. 'Actually, I can. But it doesn't make it any less painful. God, you're a _bastard_.'

'I know some nice girls named Barbie,' Draco offered.

Hermione glowered. 'Do they all happen to work in a brothel?'

'Well,' Draco said, considering. 'They're more like _geisha _than proper – Jesus!' he exclaimed, recoiling from her advance. 'Mind that hem, Granger. That dress cost more than you want to know.'

Harry, sitting on the chaise behind him, snickered and then immediately tried to hide it at the look on her face. Hermione sorely missed the days when, to Harry, anything Draco said was automatically considered nasty and uncouth and under no circumstances amusing. This whole arrangement had them spending far too much time together; Draco was being a very bad influence, as far as Hermione was concerned.

Hermione glowered at Harry before turning her glare back to Draco. She raised a threatening finger. '_Bastard_.'

'Easy, darling,' Draco warned. 'You muss up the cosmetics, Mother's likely to maim.'

Hermione had been slightly surprised when Narcissa began applying the cosmetic equivalent of a masquerade mask to her face. Of course, she had understood that wizarding débutante balls were quite different from the Muggle versions, but she hadn't been quite prepared for _how _different. Apparently, the masquerade-look was a bit of a theme all debut pairs had to adhere to. She'd been sceptical at first, but it turned out Narcissa was about as talented with cosmetics as Molly Weasley was with cuisine. Hermione did not need to see Harry's look of open-mouthed astonishment to know she looked utterly fantastic.

Draco's do-up was radically different from her own. He'd been herded out of the bathroom by his mother with a similar mask-effect around his eyes, but the edges of the design were sharper than her own; the tips were not rounded like hers, but rather pointed and curled, reminiscent of flames but artistically represented rather than tacky. The colours were also bright, deep reds and oranges instead of Hermione's icy blue. It was a good choice; the colour both suited his complexion and brought out his eyes magnificently.

'Bastard,' she muttered again, withholding the urge to smack that smirk right off his face.

Draco flashed her a brilliant smile, and Hermione felt herself flush; she was saved from embarrassment, however, when Narcissa came up behind him and began fussing with his collar. Draco grimaced and attempted to recoil.

'I can do my own sodding tie,' he snapped, looking irate but resigned as she snagged the tie around his neck like a lasso and yanked him back into range.

'Sure you can, darling,' Narcissa replied, unperturbed, tipping his chin up with the back of her hand as she buttoned up the few open buttons at the top of his collar, which she then folded up so she could smooth the tie out against his neck and shoulders. 'Stop pulling, Draco.'

Hermione had to physically restrain a smirk as Narcissa pushed his head this way and that, tying the knot, untying it, re-smoothing the satin, tying it again, folding the collar down, deciding the knot was uneven and starting over again. It would have been an easy fix with magic, Hermione thought, but Narcissa seemed to almost enjoy the disgruntled state her son was in as she fussed over his appearance.

Standing back to scrutinise her work, Narcissa pulled out her wand and a very small, black box. Draco eyed it warily.

'_No_,' he said firmly.

'Oh, yes,' she said, flipping the box open and seizing him by his tie before he could retreat. She brushed some of his hair behind his ear, exposing it. 'Hold still, or it'll sting.'

'It'll sting anyway!' he snapped, trying and failing to pull away; she just went with him, and with a wave of her wand, two tiny, glinting objects soared out of the box and towards the tip of her wand.

'Hold still,' she warned again. Draco glowered at her but obeyed, looking away. Hermione raised her eyebrows as Narcissa directed the tiny objects to his left ear. He winced as they impaled themselves into place. Narcissa tapped his ear with her wand again, and the redness that had been blooming there melted away. She gave him an appraising look. 'See? That wasn't so bad.'

'I don't know why you always insist on this,' he spat out bitterly.

'It's a good look on you,' she reprimanded, tilting his head to the side and back again. 'I don't know why you're so averse to it. I do wish you'd leave them in...'

'Sorry if I don't like poking holes in my body,' he retorted sourly, absently reaching up to rub at his eyebrow; Narcissa slapped his hand away.

'Don't rub it,' she admonished. 'I'm not doing it all over again.'

'It _itches_,' he complained.

'You'll get used to it.'

'I don't _want _to get used to it.'

'I didn't want to get used to wearing a corset, either,' she said loftily, folding her arms and fixing him with a look. 'In fact, I think that, by comparison, Miss Granger has a lot more of "getting used to" to complain about than you do, and unless you would like a detailed explanation about everything us women have a right to be upset about in the name of beauty—' (Hermione stifled a giggle at the brief look of horror that flitted across Draco's face.) '—I suggest you go put on your cloak and start acting less like a spoilt little boy and more like a gentleman.'

'You know,' Harry said absently as Draco stalked, still glowering, out of the room, 'you could pick up tips, watching her work.'

'I am,' Hermione confirmed, smirking. The smirk quickly softened into a thoughtful smile. 'Though,' she said after a moment as Narcissa disappeared back into her room, 'I never thought I'd say this, but he looks rather fetching all done-up.'

'Yeah,' Harry said. Hermione raised her eyebrows, and Harry finished, 'Until he opens his mouth.'

Hermione managed to stop giggling just as Draco re-entered the hall a few moments later, pulling a deep red cloak that matched the accents of his robes around his shoulders. 'What's so funny?' he demanded.

'Oh, nothing,' Harry said, leaning back and looking smug. 'Except the fact that you are the sorriest mummy's boy we've ever seen.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. 'At least—' He stopped mid-sentence and seemed to think better of his words the same instant Hermione realised what he was going to say.

_At least I have one._

Instead, he smirked, and started again, 'Careful, Potter, or one of these days I'll let her have at _you_.'

'I have no desire to look like a dandy, but thanks for the offer,' Harry said grudgingly.

'Jealousy breeds malcontent,' Draco remarked absently, not in the least fazed as he turned his attention to Hermione and offered his elbow. 'Shall we?'

: : :

The Cavalry Volante Palazzo was, as it turned out, a behemothic Mediterranean-style mansion. It was a huge, heavily ornamented Tuscan Villa with sandy-coloured walls, a circular court with a centre fountain, and a large adjacent racetrack. According to the small summary Draco had given her, Yaxely's largest stock was held in horse and pegasus sporting, breeding and exporting. Draco had told her his grandfather had been quite involved in the business himself, and hence the horses at the Manor.

Though unlike the Manor's antique qualities, this building had a much more modern tenor to it; wide, high windows opened into a large, marble-floored hall where everything appeared to be made of crystal and silver. Hundreds of thousands of candles floated both inside and outside of the building, lighting the walkways and interiors with warm, flickering rays of light. An elaborate pool-and-jacuzzi filled with sparkling aquamarine water stretched out behind the main hall, which was currently brimming with guests stemming from a large combination of fancy cars and carriages that lined the front walk outside the mansion.

If Hermione had any doubts concerning Narcissa's assurances that she wouldn't be recognised, the sheer volume of guests vaporised any worry she retained whatsoever. There had to be at least two thousand witches and wizards present, and as they went inside and Hermione glanced around, she found that she didn't recognise _any _of them.

'Are they _all _pure-bloods?' she asked in a whisper.

Draco made a funny noise in his throat, sounding very much like he was restraining a laugh. 'They wish.'

'I thought this was an invite-only pure-blood party?' she asked dubiously.

'It is,' he confirmed. 'They have to be at least first-generation pure-blood to be considered for attendance, but most of those requests get denied. You're looking at mostly second- to fifth-generation pure-bloods, at the most. There's only a handful of wizards you'll find in there that are anywhere near as pure as Yaxley, my mother and I.'

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'So what generation pure-blood are you?'

He smirked at her. 'Well, let's put it this way. Once we traced back to 1500, we stopped counting.'

'Ah,' Hermione said. 'So you're officially the most inbred pillock in Britain. Congratulations.'

'No, love, that'd be the man of the hour's title. He's got a full pedigree all the way back to 1392.'

'That's ridiculous,' she said, feeling scandalised.

'That's Yaxley for you,' he answered, grimacing. 'Come on.'

Draco led her through a maze of people clustered in small groups, idle chatter and light laughs drowning out the live orchestra strings singing from a small stage deep inside the ballroom. Everything was glittering and sparkling, from the heavy jewels laden around women's necks to flashes of white teeth behind smiles. Hermione no longer felt overdressed; she blended in perfectly, and people hardly cast her a glance as Draco led her, carefully but swiftly, towards the centre of the ballroom.

Draco, on the other hand, gathered more than his fair share of looks. Several witches even pointed before frowning or smiling and bending in to whisper to one another. Though many people seemed to know who he was, no one approached him, and Hermione could safely assume his father had likely received the same treatment. Malfoys were known to favour Dark Magic, and even amongst other pure-bloods, they were considered dangerous. Masquerade-like make-up adorned a large number of other couples, who were hovering near the stage where Draco had led her, talking in boisterous tones and floating about with a distinct air of superiority. They gave Draco a wide berth, though, careful not to come too close, much less approach them. All for the better, Hermione thought. The less people they had to talk to, the less chance there was someone would recognise her...

'Mr Malfoy,' murmured a voice behind the pair, 'this is an unexpected surprise.'

Hermione turned around with Draco, and immediately recognised the stranger from the profile Ron had brought to the Manor three days earlier.

Gervasio Alessandro Yaxley, as it turned out, was extremely... well, _Italian _in every sense of the word—from his voice to his posture, he reeked of exotic and ostentatious avant-garde. He had a very heavy tan, dark eyes, wavy, voluptuous hair, and the sort of smirk that would have mothers locking up their teenage daughters. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties, but was anythingbut vile-looking; he didn't have the cool, refined beauty that Draco or his mother presented, but was still extremely handsome in his own respect.

'Gervasio,' Draco returned, with a very slight inclination of his head. 'Yes, well, I decided a cocktail party was in order and Mother was pleased for an excuse to visit.'

'Mm, yes, where is dear Narcissa?' Yaxley asked, sounding interested. He hadn't yet acknowledged Hermione's presence at all, and she had a feeling he wouldn't be asking for an introduction any time soon.

'Around,' Draco answered vaguely, his face blank. He didn't seem fussed with introducing his partner either, and Hermione pretended to gaze about casually, taking careful note of every motion and word between the two.

Looking slightly disappointed that Narcissa did not magically materialise out of thin air, Yaxley turned his attention back to Draco. 'I got word of your father,' he said in an otiose tone. 'Terrible news. Tragic. Lucius was a good man.'

'Indeed.'

'Is your mother still breeding, by any chance?'

Hermione looked around, unable to stop herself; how could Yaxley ask such a thing in _public_? And to _Draco_, of all people? Hermione almost interjected but Draco answered smoothly: 'Yes, she does, in fact. What were you looking for?'

'Wonderful,' Yaxley said, looking pleased. 'I've a few mares I'd be keen to board if you still have that Andalusian stud.'

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes; she'd long given up hope that men ever talked about anything other than business, sex or sports. It was hard not to fidget to keep from falling asleep from pure boredom as Yaxley began to drone _on _and _on _about his racing studs and breeding arrangements with Draco, who kept his face completely passive and his voice polite, indulging Yaxley's every proposal to the tee. Still hooked on his arm, Hermione could practically feel him _vibrating _with fury and made sure to give his elbow an incognito pinch whenever his arm started to twitch in hopes of reminding him that to attack Yaxley would be very counter-productive to their plan.

Just as the balls of her feet began to scream in agony at standing stationary in three-inch heels and Hermione was considering sneaking away with a trip to the loo, Yaxley's eyes darted over their shoulders and his face lit up with a jaunty smile.

'Narcissa! You are looking lovelier than ever.'

Draco's elbow twitched again, and Hermione tightened her grip on it.

'You flatter an old woman,' Narcissa said lightly, her voice playful as she sauntered up to them. She tilted her head, just slightly, in a manner Hermione remembered being trained in the previous day; the bashful head-tilt. The midnight blue of her dress made her hair and eyes appear brighter and glimmer more than ever; even Hermione couldn't help but stare.

'Nonsense,' Yaxley insisted. 'The term "old" will never apply to you, my dear.'

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, and offered him her hand: the subtle invitation. 'If I am so lovely, dear Gervasio, why do I find myself attending your party alone?'

Yaxley took her proffered hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. 'Why, darling, so you could adorn my arm.'

Hot damn, that woman was good.

'Barb, sweetheart,' Narcissa said, eyes still on Yaxley, 'be a darling and look after Draco for me, would you?'

Hermione tightened the elbow-hook she had on Draco as he attempted to squirm away. 'Of course, Mrs Malfoy,' she said with a small curtsey-nod.

'Good girl,' Yaxley observed, gracing her with a glance before offering his arm to Narcissa, who took it with a winning smile.

'Are you sure I can't just kill him?' Draco asked as the pair sauntered away. 'Please?'

Hermione sighed, deciding not to mention the fact that even enraged, Draco likely wouldn't possess the nerve to kill anyone. Instead, she tugged him firmly in the opposite direction. 'Azkaban'll be the end of him anyway,' she muttered.

'Exactly,' Draco told her in a low voice. 'Only my way, it's much more immediate. And gratifying. And we get to skip the paperwork. And the part where he's _fucking my mother_.'

'Oh, grow _up_,' she hissed, not slowing until they were at the far corner of the room and Narcissa was a blue-and-gold blot in the distance among many other blue-and-gold blots. 'I can see why she never told Lucius. He _would _have killed him.'

'Father would have done a lot worse than kill him,' Draco snarled, grudgingly following her lead. 'And I would have _helped_.'

'The sooner she gets what we need, the sooner we can leave, and the sooner he'll be where he belongs.' Hermione bit her lip and stood up on her tiptoes, peering over the sea of well-groomed heads. 'When's the ceremony?'

'Guests have an hour to arrive before they begin,' Draco remarked absently, still looking back at where they'd come from. 'Are you sure your Golden Boy can track her position in here?'

'I'm sure,' Hermione said. 'And if anything goes amiss, he'll know it before we do—and he can get to her fastest that way, even you know that.'

Draco scowled and came to a halt, still looking longingly after the spot from which his mother had disappeared.

'I promise you, she'll be _fine_, Draco,' Hermione assured him.

'Do me a favour, _Barb_,' he drawled, finally looking at her; 'don't make promises you can't keep.'

: : :

Hermione had adopted a pattern: she would hand Draco a full glass of champagne, and he would eye it blearily, consider breaking it, before finally downing it in one swig. She would then spend five minutes patiently prying his fingers off the glass and replace it with another one, and then the process would repeat. They were still in the far corner of the ballroom, by one of the many tables laden with various colourful comestibles and a hefty amount of expensive liquor.

Not many people were mingling this far from the centre of the room, so Draco all but jumped out of his skin when a silky voice behind him murmured, 'Fancy meeting _you _two here.'

Spinning around, silver eyes immediately narrowed. Dressed in deep evergreen robes that suited his dark complexion spectacularly well, was none other than Blaise Zabini; he was taller than the last time Draco had seen him, almost as tall as the Weasley, his wavy hair swept carelessly aside and candid smirk in place. Slung around the waist of his robes was a thick sash, attached to which at his left hip were a pair of plain, black daisho sheaths—in the hilt of each, Draco knew, lay embedded a wand.

'Zabini,' Draco said curtly. 'Charming.'

'Blaise,' Hermione said, sounding both surprised and relieved. Draco gaped at her. 'I didn't know you'd be here!'

'I always have time to attend my father's parties,' Blaise said, smirking. 'Free food, good champagne, an endless selection of attractive trollops,' he continued, shrugging. 'Everything a bloke could ask for.'

'Your father?' Hermione asked, gaping. 'Yaxley's your—'

'Nose _down_, darling,' Draco said sharply, casting a glance around to make sure they weren't being overheard.

Blaise flashed her a grin, eyes flickering between the two. 'Fire and ice,' he said finally, nodding. 'Appropriate. Do I even dare ask what the occasion is?'

'No,' Draco snapped, before Hermione could say anything. She gave him an indignant look, but he continued, 'Any last requests? Or can we just Stun you now and get it over with?'

'Relax,' Blaise said, cutting Hermione off again before she could protest. 'You know my adage, Malfoy. I don't get involved unless there's something in it for me.'

Hermione finally managed to get a word in before Draco could retort. 'It's all right, Draco,' she hissed quickly. 'He's with _us_.'

She did not have to specify who 'us' was—Draco's eyes narrowed further as Blaise continued to smirk at them. 'You sure?' he sneered. 'He doesn't tend to get involved unless there's something in it for _him_.'

'Who says there isn't?' Blaise asked, his smirk increasing. 'Really, Malfoy, it's been four years. You're not stillangry about that, are you?'

'Angry about what?' Hermione asked, eyes flickering back and forth between the two.

'Oh, let me think on it for a moment,' Draco said over her, eyes not leaving Blaise. Without pausing, he finished, 'No. Bloody furious is more accurate. Is there something you _want_, or are you here just to gloat?'

Hermione made an impatient noise that both men ignored.

Blaise _tsk_ed at Draco. 'I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, you haven't grown a day. Anyway—' his eyes turned to Hermione, who was glaring at them indignantly, '—what moniker have you adopted for the evening?'

Hermione ignored his question, eyes on Draco. 'What are you two on about?' she demanded.

'Barbara Leblanc,' Draco answered for her, eyes still fixed unforgivingly on Blaise. 'Second cousin once-removed on my mother's side.'

'Keeping up with tradition,' Blaise said approvingly. 'I suppose your votary did her nut when she heard?'

Draco's scowl vanished immediately; now he just looked horror-struck. 'She's _here_?'

Blaise raised his eyebrows. 'Of course she is. In fact—too late for you to run for it, I'm afraid,' he said, eyes going over Draco's shoulder. 'Here she comes.'

: : :

_'There's a connection here, I just know it.'_  
- Calvin and Hobbes

: : :

It may have been early morning, it may have been midday; it was hard to tell, because even in summer, the sky at this altitude was always overcast, threatening rain, hail, snow or some combination of the three. If anyone had bothered to check the time, they would have seen it was just past midnight, but nobody really cared what time it was, because Death Eaters did not adhere to normal time. They were above that. They all obeyed one schedule, and one schedule only. That of the Dark Lord—which, unlike standard time, was subject to change at any point, and usually without notice.

The room was bare and comprised of some elaborate mixture of dark woods and stone, with a high ceiling, no windows, and two pairs of double doors, one at the front, one at the back. The doors at the back were given a wide berth, for no one wanted to be the closest of the group to those doors, in case whatever came through was in an exceptionally bad mood. They clustered together like a pack of starving, abused wolves, snarling at one another and cursing the Reason for this meeting in hushed tones.

'—couldn't finish off that old geezer, even with us there at his side! If Severus hadn't—'

'—told you the boy was rotten—'

'—coward like his father—'

'—never thought I'd live to see the day a Malfoy—'

'—filthy blood traitors.'

The doors at the front of the room opened with a slam, and three figures swept in—all three were tall, but the two men flanking the woman in the lead held a few inches over her. Bellatrix did not need size, however, to exact obedience over her husband or brother-in-law, much less the large group of Death Eaters before her that represented most of the Dark Lord's most trusted and loyal—the Inner Circle.

'Enough,' Bellatrix snapped, sweeping through them all. 'Pointless derogation and gossip aren't going to do us any good finding the little rat.'

'He's _your _bloody nephew,' Macnair snarled, stepping forward out of the group. 'Your family's chock full of bad blood, Bellatrix. One cousin a coward, the other a traitor—both your sisters no better, with one marrying a Muggle and Narcissa standing by Lucius' betrayal and that coward son of hers—I'm just biding the day you show your true colours, turn tail and run—'

Bellatrix's wand was at his throat in a flash. 'I would guard my words if I were you, Walden.'

Rodolphus, knowing better than to attempt to subdue his wife's rage, instead retreated safely back into the group of Death Eaters watching, and exchanged a significant look with Rabastan, who stood beside him and rolled his eyes. Macnair, it seemed, would never learn when to keep his mouth shut.

'Aye.' Macnair cackled at her, ignoring the sharp point of her wand pressing into his jugular. He inhaled sharply through his nose, making his heavy black moustache twitch. 'But you're not me, now are you, _Black_?'

There was a curse, a flash of red light and a loud bang—when the smoke cleared, Macnair's mangled form was visible on the ground several metres away, looking painfully singed, but the steady rise and fall of his chest confirmed he was still alive, albeit just barely. Rodolphus sighed; the name 'Black' was as bad as 'Mudblood' these days, and his wife went strictly by his surname only because of it.

Bellatrix levelled her wand at the rest and swung it in a semi-circle before her. 'Anyone _else _feel like making recreant accusations?'

There was a small pause, in which no one spoke or moved to check on Macnair. Then a soft, amused voice from the back said, 'Really, Bella, that was a bit harsh, even for you.'

A collective shudder ran through the sea of cloaks, and several Death Eaters filtered aside, allowing a new figure, followed by a stooped, quivering mass, to enter the circle. Bellatrix lowered her wand and dropped gracefully to one knee. 'Forgive me, my Lord.'

'Rise,' Voldemort said lazily. He turned his attention to the Lestrange brothers. 'Help that idiot up,' he snapped. 'I won't have his corpse littering up the place.'

Rabastan moved immediately; Rodolphus followed after the briefest of pauses.

The other Death Eaters quietly formed a ring around their master; a small gap between Bellatrix and Severus left just enough room for the Lestrange brothers, who quickly rejoined the ranks; across from them, a single space where Macnair, still incapacitated, would have stood.

Voldemort stood in the centre of the circle and surveyed them quietly with sharp eyes—searching for anything anomalous among his followers—while Wormtail huddled, terrified, at his side. He paused several times, focusing on a few individuals, and by the slightly glazed look in their eyes, one could tell he was scanning their memories for suspicious or foolhardy activity. Even with the restoration of his human form, dark hair and eyes, well groomed in appearance, half the age he should have been and easily the comeliest of them all, Voldemort still managed, almost effortlessly, to suppress his followers with a cloak of terror and obedience. His presence alone was more than enough to produce this effect, the sheer power emanating from him like a miasma of Dark Magic as he surveyed his servants.

After a rather intense mental interrogation of Rookwood, he seemed satisfied. 'I have brought you here tonight,' he began, 'to make my orders on the situation explicitly clear.' Voldemort paused; even in the silence, no one dared speak. 'I will say this once, and once only,' the Dark Lord continued. 'The boy is _not _to be harmed.'

When he paused this time, several hushed whispers crossed the ranks. Voldemort ignored them. 'Do whatever you deem necessary to find him. He will most likely be in Potter's company.' Voldemort stopped again, letting the whispers carry, waiting for some coward to step forward. He did not have to wait long.

'M-my Lord,' one began, voice trembling slightly, 'if he is with Potter... if Malfoy is not to be harmed—how are we to—'

'Be quiet, Rosier,' Voldemort interrupted, and Rosier stopped babbling immediately. 'Potter is a problem, but this should not come as a surprise, as he always manages to find some way to upset our agenda.' The Dark Lord's voice was sharp and coated with impatience, and the underlings closest to him winced as if struck. 'His luck, however, will inevitably fail. Deal with it. I do not care for discretion or method, so long as you bring me the Malfoy boy alive and coherent—' he paused, and the sound of Greyback's hungry panting was clearly heard; Voldemort fixed him with a knowing look, '—and _unmauled_, Fenrir.'

'Of course, my Lord,' Fenrir murmured, bowing his head.

Voldemort turned his gaze to Avery. 'Your task,' he prompted.

Avery lowered his head in submission. 'We were unable to locate him, my Lord—but,' he added quickly, 'we managed to secure his daughter.'

The Dark Lord absorbed this information thoroughly before responding; every moment of the silence, Avery trembled, expecting punishment, but Voldemort spoke first.

'His daughter,' Voldemort repeated, sounding thoughtful. 'Yes, yes, I suppose that will do. Where is the girl?'

'W-with Theodore, my Lord,' Avery stuttered, looking extremely relieved. 'We expect he will come to us.'

Voldemort seemed satisfied with this. 'She will be useful in the interrogation,' he said slowly. His gaze shifted to the tall, gaunt man stood beside Avery. 'Antonin, I expect you to be present when he comes for her.'

Dolohov inclined his head. 'My Lord, it will be a pleasure,' he said smoothly.

Voldemort's gaze shifted back to the shorter man; a twisted sort of smile was playing at his lips as he said, 'See to it that Theodore contains himself until then, Avery.'

'Yes, of course, my Lord,' Avery said, bowing his head low.

Turning away from him, Voldemort surveyed the rest impassively. 'This is but one small step in the necessary direction; divide the targets amongst yourselves and secure those you can, and kill those you cannot,' he said sharply. 'The boy no doubt knows we will come for him and has protected himself accordingly. If you cannot handle Potter, then I suggest you find a way to separate them. I will accept no excuses on the matter.'

There was a collective murmur of 'Yes, my Lord' as the ring clustered around him bowed their heads in obedience. Voldemort swept out of the circle through the gap left by Macnair's absence with Wormtail on his heels, wordlessly dismissing the group.

Bellatrix pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders; the room was disgustingly cold, despite the time of year. Beside her, always the taciturn partner, Rodolphus silently unbuttoned his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. She nodded curtly in appreciation and wrapped herself in it, her coldness somewhat alleviated.

Her eyes lingered briefly on their Lord, standing by the back doorway and quietly hissing to Nagini, who had curled devotedly around his feet. She briefly wondered what they spoke about; they conversed frequently, often for long periods of time—sometimes, Nagini even interrupted his tirades, and the Dark Lord was always uncharacteristically tolerant, even considerate, of such disruptions.

'So,' Rodolphus said softly in an undertone, breaking her thoughts, 'any idea of where we should begin?'

'Mm.' Bellatrix glanced at her husband. 'Perhaps we should pay a visit to my darling sister,' she finished after a moment, with a formidable sneer.

Rodolphus raised his eyebrows. 'Which one?'

Before she could answer, something large and smooth slid past her leg; Bellatrix glanced down to see a long, diamond-patterned back sliding between her feet, the scales cool against her ankles. Looking up, she met the dark eyes of her master and felt Rodolphus stiffen beside her. Hissing softly, Nagini circled once around her before sliding back towards Voldemort and then past him, out the open doors.

Without looking twice at her husband, Bellatrix handed him back his cloak and wordlessly followed her master through the doorway. Wormtail shuffled after them, quietly closing the doors behind him.

'Ro, don't,' Rabastan said quickly as his brother started forwards towards the closed door. A firm hand on Rodolphus' elbow halted him, and Rabastan could feel him practically vibrating with silent fury. 'Be reasonable, will you?' he hissed. 'There's nothing you can do.'

Behind them and watching with faint amusement, someone chuckled. 'Oh, but he'd sure like to try, wouldn't he.'

'Piss off, Severus,' Rabastan snapped. 'Learn to mind your own.'

'If I minded my own, I wouldn't have the position I do,' Severus said smoothly, smirking. 'Hardly my fault if your brother can't command fidelity from his wife.'

Rodolphus rounded on him, wand drawn, teeth gritted and eyes narrowed. Rabastan gripped his brother's wrist and yanked his arm back down; it would be foolhardy to assault Snape, firstly because Snape did not need to speak to cast and could anticipate his opponent's attacks, and secondly because Voldemort held his counsel in the highest esteem and would not take kindly to unwarranted attempts on his life.

Severus regarded Rodolphus with folded arms and little concern. 'Contain yourself,' he said coolly. 'The Dark Lord values your ability and above all, your loyalty,' he continued, 'as do I. It would be a shame to lose you.' And with this veiled threat, Severus departed.

Rodolphus' wand arm, still securely restrained, was shaking in his brother's grasp. 'He's right, Ro,' Rabastan said quietly. 'It's not worth it.'

Rodolphus wrenched his arm away, wrapping the cloak Bellatrix had returned back around his shoulders, and met his brother's gaze. 'It's worth it to _me_,' he snarled, voice low and bordering on dangerous, and for half a second Rabastan was worried he had finally snapped and would pursue her; but Rodolphus hovered only for a moment before whirling and retreating towards the opposite doors, through which the other Death Eaters had exited.

'And this,' Rabastan muttered to himself as his brother stalked away, fuming, 'is why I never married.'

: : :

Hermione turned and followed Blaise's line of sight; a very slim young woman with curly, dark-red hair and mocha-coloured skin emerged from the crowd and sauntered up them, so smoothly she could have been on rollers. She slipped right past Hermione in a wave of dark green silk to Draco, taking his cheek in one hand and kissing him swiftly on the other.

'It 'az been so long, chéri,' she said. 'I thought you might 'ave forgotten me.'

Draco (who had gone from looking horrified to impassive so quickly that Hermione was deeply impressed) smoothly removed her hand from his cheek and lightly kissed her knuckles. 'How could I, mademoiselle,' he said, his voice equanimous despite the woman's impertinent manner.

She smiled at him before letting her eyes sweep to Hermione, at which point she blinked to cover her momentary surprise. Hermione stared; the woman had the most brilliantly green eyes she'd ever seen.

'Mademoiselle Leblanc, I presume,' the woman said smoothly. Hermione raised her eyebrows; it seemed word travelled faster here than it did at Hogwarts. 'This is an unexpected pleasure. I do 'ope you are enjoying ze party.'

'Yes,' Hermione replied. 'It's fine.'

The woman raised her eyebrows. 'I would 'ave 'oped for more zen "fine".'

Draco quickly began, 'Barb, this is—'

'Carlotta Ouellet,' the woman intervened, hooking Draco's elbow with an arm as she did so, ''iz wife.'

: : :


	9. Chapter Eight: Infractus Patronus

Chapter 8  
**Infractus Patronus**

_War does not determine who is right - only who is left._  
—Bertrand Russel

: : : : :

'You said if I needed _anything_,' Draco hissed impatiently.

'Draco—'

'No,' Draco said firmly. 'I won't. Now just sign the ruddy form.'

Snape's lip curled. 'You will call me _sir_ while attending this institution, Mr Malfoy.'

'_Sir_,' Draco spat. 'Sign it.'

'I do not understand why you insist on being so difficult,' Snape said icily, keeping his voice low. 'I am only trying to help you.'

'You want to help me?' Draco hissed. 'Then sign the bloody form, and keep your nose out of my business.' Then, sneering, '_Sir_.'

Snape, at this point, seemed to notice that they were gathering some attention from the surrounding students idling outside the classroom. Draco still held the form out, on the back of his Potions book, quill in the other hand and already dripping with ink. With a look of deep suspicion and subdued fury, Snape seized the quill and quickly autographed the note Draco had prepared to gain access to the Restricted Section of the library. Without waiting for a rebuke, Draco snatched his quill back and stalked off, leaving Snape glaring in his wake.

Idiot. Who did he think he was, snooping around in Draco's business? He had half a mind to think Aunt Bella was right; Snape was _supposed_ to be on their side, but he wasn't being very helpful—either he was just incredibly greedy, or he really _was_ a traitor. Either way, he could not find out what Draco was up to, no matter what Mother thought of him.

Rolling his eyes, Draco sped towards the library; the note would be good over the holidays, giving him plenty of time to scour the shelves for anything that might assist him in his task. He'd take out several books at once, on various topics, to ensure that no pattern could be discerned in the type of books he was borrowing...

Gathering three more-or-less equally dusty and thick volumes, Draco made his way along the last aisle of the Restricted Section, the shelf on one side of which served as a wall separating the study area of the library.

Nearby voices brought him to an abrupt halt.

The first was male and unfamiliar. 'Where'd the sod run off to this time?'

'Probably off snogging his ego.' That was Blaise, easily recognisable; an Italian accent was hard to overlook at Hogwarts.

Draco stopped, ear to the shelf and out of sight, to eavesdrop. Through the small space between the top of the books and the next shelf, Draco could see his fellow Slytherin drop his bag on the table just outside the Restricted Section and pull out a roll of parchment. An equally tall, though much more pallid, Ravenclaw boy followed suit; Draco recognised his face: Kevin Entwhistle, one of Blaise's fencing partners.

The sandy-haired sixth-year was still shaking his head as he sat down. 'All I'm saying is, he's got some balls, talking to Snape like that.'

'Malfoy? Are you kidding?' Blaise said, shaking his head. 'Snape's just scared of his father like the rest of them.'

'I thought his father was in Azkaban?'

'They're all still scared of him,' Blaise assured him. 'But trust me, Malfoy's a bloody craven if ever there was one. He didn't even have the bollocks to step up and ask Pansy to the ball; he had to write her a _note _during Astronomy.'

Kevin gawked at him, then laughed. 'Are you serious?' Blaise rolled his eyes, shaking his head; Kevin mirrored the action. 'Bloody hell, his mum should've called _him_ Pansy.'

Draco's jaw and stomach clenched simultaneously. He did not like where the conversation was heading; his first impulse was to leave—because, honestly, out of sight was out of mind, and he had much more important things to worry about than what his housemates were saying behind his back. But for security purposes, there was only one way in and out of the Restricted Section—meaning he couldn't leave without walking right past them.

Hands curling into fists and eyes closing in resignation, he leaned up against the bookcase and stayed put.

Draco could see Vince and Greg follow in behind them, taking the seats opposite. Vince was laughing at their remarks; Greg looked uncomfortable. Blaise just shrugged, dragging out his books from his bag. 'S'what I keep trying to tell her, but she's bloody besotted with the idiot.'

'All the birds are,' Vince said shortly. 'It's just 'cuz he's a fucking pretty boy.'

'Yeah, tell me about it,' Kevin was saying bitterly. 'Mandy and her posse never shut up about him. Half the blokes, too. Even bloody Carmichael's all eyes every game.'

There was an exasperated snort, then Theodore's voice. 'He's just a bloody fop like Lucius. My father reckons he's just as bad, if not worse. The favour'll pass, you just wait.'

Vince chortled. 'I think Pansy just wants his money.'

There was another snort, this time from Blaise. '_I've_ got plenty of money, and she won't go out with me. No, it's not that—she just wants a pantywaist to bully around, is all. Lucius wasn't a nancy, at least,' he said, looking from Theodore to Vince. 'If it weren't for you and Greg, Draco'd have got the stuffing knocked out of him long ago.'

'Gods, I hope his father fucking rots in that hell hole,' Vince snarled. 'Soon as he's out of Dad's hair, I'll pummel the git myself. Thinks he can order me around just because his daddy's a bigshot. I wish someone would kick his face in for me.'

'Potter and Weasley managed that pretty well last year,' Kevin remarked offhandedly as he scratched something else off the parchment; the laughter began anew at the memory of the Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match of their fifth year.

'Hell,' Blaise gasped, still sniggering, 'don't even get me started on him and Potter. He's had a hard on for that pillock since first year.'

'Potter's not much better,' Theodore said nastily. 'Anyway, you act like Malfoy being a coward is news. I hope whatever he's up to kills him.'

'You're just peeved that Daph wants to shag him,' Vince admonished, smirking.

'Well, at least Potter's not a coward,' Kevin said fairly, taking them back to the topic at hand.

'And he'd kick the stuffing out of Malfoy, given half a chance,' Blaise piped in.

'I've a mind to, sometimes,' Vince muttered. 'Even that bushy Mudblood whacked him good, third year—you should've seen him; didn't even pull out his wand, muttering excuses about not being able to hit girls or some bollocks, as if it matters with that filth.'

'You'd think he'd be complaining that Parkinson won't spread her legs or something, like any other bloke,' Blaise continued over the others' guffawing, 'but no—it's always Potter _this_ and Potter _that_; I swear, I hate Potter just because he never shuts up about him.'

Snickering, Kevin managed, 'Parkinson won't give it up?'

'Isn't it obvious? Bloody queer might as well have "virgin" stamped on his forehead,' Blaise retorted, rustling through his bag again, wrestling out another book. 'Wanks like a third-year, too, I swear. Are you _done_ with that yet?' he snapped, indicating the essay Kevin was attacking with a quill.

'Well you _would_ know, wouldn't you?' sneered Theodore, reaching over the table to dip his quill in Vince's ink bottle. 'Don't even try and pretend like you don't fancy him.'

'Yeah, well, you've already snagged the other blonde for yourself, haven't you?' Blaise remarked, tapping his wand impatiently while he waited for Kevin to hand back the roll of parchment. 'He might be a spoiled little shit, but he's also a hot one. For fucks sakes, Kevin, it's not going to correct itself, give it here.'

'Keep your bloody knickers on, I ain't finished.'

'Draco's more of a girl than that tart of yours anyway,' Vince said to Theodore, earning an eyeroll and a smirk from Blaise. 'Probably not as easy, though.'

'Only because he's a pussy,' Theodore supplied.

'Oh, he'll give it up easy enough,' Blaise said, sounding confident. 'Ten Galleons says he's on his knees in a week.'

Kevin looked up from his essay. 'A week? Even for you, that's pushing it.'

'Yeah, you said that about Jones, too, remember?' Blaise responded, still smirking. 'One. Week.'

Vince laughed outright, loud enough that Madam Pince shushed him from afar. 'Done.'

Theodore raised his eyebrows. 'Twenty says he _won't_.'

'Thirty says I'll be whoring him out by the time you get back from the holidays,' Blaise countered.

'You're on.'

'Easy money,' Blaise said with a flourish, finally losing his patience and snatching the essay right from under Kevin's quill. He frowned at the large mass of corrections. 'What the hell, Ent? You might as well re-write it for me.'

'That'll cost you double,' Kevin said, twirling his quill in his fingers. 'I've got enough to do with my own shit, never mind writing all your bloody essays.'

'Oi, what's with you?' Vince said suddenly while Blaise continued to argue with the Ravenclaw; he had elbowed Greg, who sat up with a start.

'Nuthin',' Greg grunted, giving him a nasty look. 'Just bored of you lot griping about how much wealthier and better-looking Malfoy is.'

'Oh, please,' scoffed Blaise, interrupting his flow with Kevin, who rolled his eyes exasperatedly. 'Being an androgynous tosser doesn't make him better-looking. Just makes him a better whore.'

'Then shut up about it already,' Greg snapped. 'I came here to get my homework checked, not listen to you whinge.' He tossed his roll of parchment at Kevin. 'Hop-to, Ravenclaw.'

Kevin wrinkled his nose at the state of the parchment. 'You could at least _try_ to write legibly, prick.'

Draco didn't remember when he'd sank down to the floor and assumed the foetal position he was growing all too accustomed to: back against the shelf, thighs drawn up against his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his legs while his forehead rested heavily on his knees. Eyes clenched shut, jaw set, but ears open to everything being said... thankfully, the conversation steered off him after that, and, after another twenty minutes of arguing and vulgar squabbling, the scraping of chairs and rustle of fabric announced the group's departure to dinner.

Draco stayed against the bookshelf for another ten minutes or so, steadying his breathing, waiting until the library had fallen completely silent before crawling to his feet and retrieving his books. Madam Pince didn't even comment as she checked his pass, made a note of the titles he was borrowing, and waved him out of the library.

So that was Zabini's angle, was it? That was what they really thought?

Draco sneered bitterly as he hefted his bag over his shoulder, heading up to the seventh floor corridor.

Let them talk, he thought. Let them call him what they would. None of it mattered, anyway.

Soon enough, he'd show them all.

: : : : :

Harry sighed and looked at the sky again. It was a clear night, with not even a whisper of a cloud, but the Disillusionment Charm would be more than enough to allow him to remain invisible against the starry void above the Palazzo. Harry had thought Malfoy Manor was flashy, but the Italian mansion below him was opulent on an entirely different level.

He couldn't understand _why_ people needed to live in such places; not only was it big enough to house an army, but it put every luxury hotel he'd ever seen to shame. The thought that it belonged to a single person made his insides burn, especially when he considered the Weasleys, living in a house that was too tiny for even a much smaller family. It wasn't just a waste of space and money, it was shoving the unnecessary extravagance in the faces of those without the means to own even a normal home.

Adjacent to the mansion was a combination casino/racetrack, the latter dark and deserted, the former blooming with faint neon lights and emitting an echo of upbeat music. Vast stables stretched out underneath Harry as he circled overhead, watching the grounds for any unusual movement, keeping a far eye on the bright yellow glow that indicated the débutante ball inside the mansion.

It had been months since he'd had an excuse to be in the air. Harry felt as if he'd been holding his breath all this time, and now was finally allowed to breathe. Granted, it was a bit awkward flying one-handed, but he could now move his injured arm a bit with no pain, just a little stiffness, as he did just now to pull out the plain piece of parchment tucked inside his robes and shake it open.

Three small dots pulsed along the rough schematic of the mansion drawn on it. Hermione was, predictably, at Draco's side in the main hall. Further off, in the opposite corner, a small dot labelled 'Narcissa' floated. Harry wondered what she was doing. Had she already cornered the target?

He sighed again and tucked the map away. He'd be checking it at regular intervals, but unless there was an alarm or suspicious activity, he would remain in the air in case of emergency. If Gawain found out that, in addition to the small force of Aurors on standby stationed just to the east, Harry had gone to survey the operation, Harry was sure that it wouldn't just be his badge that would be in jeopardy.

But he wasn't about to let Hermione put herself in the den of an enemy without being nearby in case things turned ugly. And although he was happy to be flying again, doing repetitive rounds and remaining high enough to stay invisible left him feeling cold and bored.

There were horses and pegasi of various breeds galloping below him in a paddock, neighing loudly. Harry was briefly reminded of Draco's Animagus form, and wondered what he would be if he ever got around to training to be one. McGonagall had offered to teach him, at the end of seventh year, but Harry had told her he was too occupied with the Horcruxes to bother.

He'd see to it later, he'd told her. After this was all over with. She'd given him one of those looks, part sympathy, part something he couldn't identify, as if she knew something he didn't. Now he understood; 'after this was all over with' could be an age from now. Even when he'd managed to track down the Horcruxes, even when he'd managed to defeat Voldemort... his supporters, nationally and worldwide, would still be at large. And they could never snuff out Muggle-haters completely. The prejudice would always be there.

Harry sighed and raised his broom higher, watching the bright lights below him dance in the darkness.

: : :

'I'm sorry,' Hermione said, closing her eyes as she experienced a fleeting moment of deja vu. 'His what?'

''Iz wife,' Carlotta repeated smoothly.

Hermione opened her eyes and looked at Draco. 'Your _what?' _she repeated, her voice a little high.

'Well, would you look at the time!' Blaise said suddenly, and Hermione jumped. She'd forgotten he was standing just behind her. 'Ceremonies will be beginning any minute now...'

His eyes met Draco's, and Draco scowled. 'Yes,' Draco agreed curtly, ignoring Carlotta's narrowing gaze. 'So I'd best be off with my little paramour here—'

'She does not change 'ze agreement,' Carlotta said loftily, raising a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

'What agreement?' Hermione demanded.

'See you at dinner?' Blaise offered to Draco, ignoring the women.

'Unfortunately,' Draco answered, following his lead.

Carlotta opened her mouth to speak again, but Draco had already seized Hermione by the elbow and dragged her away. Hermione saw Blaise intercept the woman as she made to follow, before focusing her attention back on Draco.

'Draco—'

'Not now,' he snapped in return. 'And definitely not _here_.'

'But you never said—'

'That's because I'm not.'

'But she said—'

'That's because she's delusional.'

'But why would she—'

'Look, Gra—' Draco cut himself off mid-sentence as he spun around to face her, and lowered his voice considerably before speaking again. 'I'm _not_ married, all right? Relax. I don't even see why it would matter to you if I was anyway.'

Hermione gave him a scathing look. 'I just don't like how I've gone from your prospective to your paramour in a little less than half an hour. You're supposed to keep me informed—'

'Is that jealousy I detect, Miss Leblanc?'

'Sod off,' Hermione responded automatically. 'Then pray tell what led her to have such a grand delusion as being married to you?'

'Good looks? Charm? Five vaults full of gold?' he suggested. Her gaze had not yet relented, and he rolled his eyes. 'It's nothing important. Father just likes to keep his ends tied.'

'Your father picked you out a wife?' Hermione asked, momentarily surprised.

'No, I picked her out,' Draco said, smiling a bit wryly. ''Course,' he continued at the look of great astonishment that appeared on Hermione's face, 'the only information I had to go on was a handful of profile pictures with the basic details. I didn't get to meet her beforehand.'

'You picked your betrothed out of a catalogue,' Hermione repeated dully. 'I can't say I'm surprised.'

The hushed talking in the room around them began to quiet, and Hermione could hear the small orchestra of strings change tune as a generous space in the centre of the room began to clear; the ceremonies would be beginning any moment now.

Draco seemed tense, looking everywhere but at Hermione, shoulders held tight. Hermione was beginning to think he was a bit paranoid.

She suddenly asked, 'So why did you pick her, then?'

Draco looked round at her and blinked. Hermione was barely able to hear his answer over the rising volume of music. 'I liked her eyes.'

Hermione stared at him.

He winked at her. 'I told you I'd be popular.'

'Yes, you did,' she said dryly, snapping out of it. 'They all bloody _love_ you.'

'They don't love _me_, they love what I'm worth,' he corrected her, 'and what I can give them if they kiss enough arse.'

'Isn't that what you want?'

'Fuck off.'

Hermione started, surprised firstly by his sudden vulgarity, and secondly by the severity of his glare; it only lasted a brief instant, however, before the forced expression of contentment returned and he looked away again. 'Sorry.' She paused, deliberating, before asking, 'Then why do you even bother?'

'I _have_ to bother,' he said, still looking away. 'One of the responsibilities of being disgustingly wealthy is maintaining a façade.'

'You don't _have _to bother,' she pointed out. 'I mean, if you hate it so much, just—it's not like just because you inherited it, you have to keep it. Why not just get rid of the gold?'

Draco finally looked at her again, eyes and face still completely impassive. 'Because then what would I have?'

Hermione would never forget the complete and utter flatness of his voice as he said that, pulling her into the crowd and losing the conversation in a maze of expensive silk and faux smiles.

: : :

Hermione was, overall, a bit unimpressed at the surprising lack of effort it took to convince a room full of haughty aristocrats that she was of some high-born, pure-blood ancestry. She was convinced Narcissa had been right: as long as she looked the part, and acted confidently, no one would question her. Confidence was something Hermione had in excess, and thanks to Narcissa, her appearance tonight left nothing to be desired, and the ceremony was going down flawlessly.

It began with being paraded slowly down a staircase into the main ballroom. It was composed of a high ceiling decorated with crystal chandeliers and a creamy, marble floor that gleamed at them like polished glass as they approached it, Hermione poised delicately on Draco's arm. There were at least two dozen other couples, all presented similarly, with a variety of different masks painted on their faces. They lined up in the centre of the ballroom, and a smaller group of coupled children, who appeared to be between around eight and ten, quickly gathered in front of them; they were similarly dressed, though their outfits lacked the masks, and they mirrored the graceful movements of the older couples as they broke off into a series of short dances while the gathered audience watched from candlelit tables around the edge of the room.

Despite having had so little time to practice, Hermione felt she did rather well keeping up with Draco's movements; it was easy to allow him to lead, putting in just enough of her own movement to make it look deliberate and like she knew what she was doing by heart. Draco kept a respectful silence throughout the ordeal, avoiding her eyes. The other couples didn't seem to be very friendly either, so Hermione followed his example and kept her expression politely impassive.

The final dance was the longest, and the hardest—the tango Hermione had spent all the previous day and night perfecting—and she felt she missed a step from time to time, but Draco seemed to be overcompensating to hide any irregularities. She glanced a look at the crowd and felt her nerves relax; many people were talking rather than watching, voices muffled under the loud music, and Hermione supposed that when one was coming to something like this every year, the constant dancing must get dull.

The polite but nevertheless loud applause from the onlookers followed them off the dance floor. She pursed her lips as Draco looked away, only keeping them connected at the elbow as he led her towards the long, rectangular table that stretched along the back of the room. He seemed relieved the ordeal was over, and let her go as soon as they had rejoined the crowd, as if touching her had pained him.

Many of the couples from the ceremony had taken seats along the edge of the table, and there at the head sat Yaxley, with Narcissa occupying the seat to his right. Draco was watching the pair through narrow eyes, and Hermione quickly located a pair of seats near the middle and pulled him toward them. It wasn't until she'd sat down that she realised who was sitting directly across from them.

'As flattering as your efforts are, you could just ask me to dance,' Blaise drawled casually, casting her an enigmatic smile.

Hermione pursed her lips again and didn't reply. Instead, she tugged on Draco's sleeve. 'Sit _down_,' she hissed.

Draco sat without a word, eyes still fixed on the head of the table. Hermione rolled her eyes and gave up, turning her attention back to Blaise. 'So how have you been fairing, Zabini?' she asked casually.

'Well, that depends,' he said smoothly. 'In what respect? Stocks are lower than they have been in decades, but then again I've got a trust fund that could be used as collateral for the Ministry and my romantic life has been extremely versatile the past few months. I suppose I can hardly complain.'

Hermione wasn't sure if it would be appropriate to laugh or not; knowing Blaise, he wasn't exaggerating, just pretending to. 'That's, uh... charming,' she finished, wrinkling her nose slightly.

He smirked at her. 'And how about you? Has that idiot of yours proposed yet?'

Hermione felt herself flush. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Mm,' Blaise hummed, smirking further.

She looked away from him, scanning the faces up and down the table. One pair of eyes quickly caught her own; on the bench by the window in the far corner sat the French woman from earlier. Her brilliant eyes were heavy-lidded and watching them, determined and unabashed. She smiled maliciously as she noticed Hermione's gaze; Hermione quickly looked away, resisting the urge to shudder and wondering when it had gotten so quiet.

It took a moment for Hermione to realise the sudden silence was due to the lack of music; the classical tune had faded and was now replaced by a slow, methodical drumbeat, joined by a bass and acoustic guitar. The stage had changed; the band had moved to the back, and four strikingly beautiful, blonde women in white dresses were gathered in front of them. It took Hermione another moment to realise they weren't women at all—they were _Veela_. In the centre of them, before a microphone, stood a tall, black witch with curly hair that Hermione thought looked vaguely familiar.

The four Veela began a chorus as the music took on a very Jazz-like appeal. The woman at the microphone started to sing in a deep, smooth voice that seemed to briefly stun the room at large, captivating everyone in the same way the allure of the Veela was affecting the men; Hermione stared, impressed at the range of the woman's voice, wondering if there was some trick with magic that allowed her to hit such high and low notes without so much as a waver.

The performance was thankfully short; if the Veela had continued to dance and sing any longer, Hermione was sure a fair number of the young boys in the room would have grossly embarrassed themselves. A round of applause that was louder than the one heralding the end of the ceremony echoed around the room, and the black witch smiled engagingly and blew a kiss to the crowd before disappearing offstage.

The music had offered a distraction from the arrival of their dinner; while eyes had been focused on the stage, the silver plates had filled with an array of food that looked so painstakingly prepared that Hermione felt a bit guilty about the fact that she was expected to eat it.

She couldn't have been more pleased when Blaise suddenly appeared beside her seat at the end of the current song and offered her his hand. 'May I have the honour?'

Hermione blushed involuntarily. 'Ah—of course,' she said quickly. Draco was glaring at her, but she gave him a stern look and took Blaise's proffered hand, letting herself be led far from the table and towards the dance floor once more.

The moment they were out of earshot, Blaise suddenly started laughing. Hermione stared at him, caught up in his arms as he spun her around, bemused. 'What's so funny?'

'The look on his face,' Blaise said, still sniggering in a rather undignified manner. 'Oh, come on, you're telling me that after all the laughter he's had at your expense, it doesn't satisfy you to see him so bloody miserable?'

Hermione frowned. 'What? No, of course not! Blaise, _really_. It's not funny—'

'Spare me the goodwill chat,' Blaise said, sobering. 'A little misery'll do him good. Anyway, that's not why I'm here.'

In the middle of a spin, Hermione felt him slip something small and smooth discretely into her hand. She peered briefly at the silvery substance contained in the vial before closing her fist around it and looking back at Blaise questioningly.

'I had a bit of an emergency,' he said with a rather scandalous smirk. 'Just see that she gets that, would you?'

'Of course,' she said. 'Though I honestly don't know how you two manage this way.'

Blaise's smirk grew. 'Oh? Who's she seeing now?'

Hermione wrinkled her nose. 'Zacharias Smith.'

'Really?' Blaise's smirk turned into a lopsided smile. 'Well, at least she has taste.'

'Eugh,' Hermione said, disgusted. 'The only thing worse would be if she were dating _Malfoy_.'

'Honestly, there'd be a higher possibility of him courting you,' Blaise said, laughing.

'Eugh,' Hermione said again. 'Not on his life.'

Blaise gave a derisive snort that made Hermione blink at him. 'No,' he said, looking far too pleased with himself. 'I think he's the last person you need to worry about in that respect.'

'What do you mean?'

'The bloke's been locked in his home alone for four years,' Blaise said, raising his eyebrows at her.

'So?'

'Don't you think it's just a _little_ odd that he's not made a single pass at you yet?'

'I...' Hermione gawked at him. 'Are you saying that—you mean that he's—'

'As a bloody maypole,' Blaise confirmed with a smirk.

She quickly shut her mouth. 'How do you know for sure?'

'You learn a lot being someone's roommate for six years, sweetheart.'

'But he and Pansy—'

'Tried, and failed. Badly, may I add.' He grinned at her. 'Well, Pansy kept trying, even after he and I sort of became bedfellows for a while. You really need to stop gaping at me like that,' he continued, readopting the smirk. 'Our kind aren't nearly as uptight when it comes to this sort of thing.'

'I—no, sorry,' she said, shaking her head. 'I mean, I don't think it's—I just—it's a bit unexpected,' she finished weakly. Then something he'd said clicked into place. 'Wait. You and he—'

'A bit,' he said, shrugging.

Hermione slowly raised her eyebrows. 'Is that why he's angry with you?'

Blaise looked at her for a moment, a smile threatening to form on his lips. 'Getting romantically involved with someone you're forced to live with generally isn't a good idea,' Blaise said finally. He didn't elaborate.

'I suppose,' she conceded. 'I guess I just didn't expect him—I mean, he's—a bit of a flirt,' she concluded lamely, frowning.

'That should have been your first clue,' Blaise said, smirking. 'You're supposed to be the clever one, aren't you?'

'I try to devote my intelligence to more constructive matters than people's personal affairs,' she huffed airily.

'Mm, speaking of personal affairs,' Blaise said as he looked up over her head, 'I think it's about time I rescued dear Draco from my mother; she's got that look in her eye again. Cheerio, darling.'

Hermione tucked the vial she'd been given into her purse and followed him back to the table, every bit as curious as she was wary.

In Hermione's old seat sat the beautiful black witch that had been singing on stage with the chorus of Veela. She stood and embraced her son as they approached, and Hermione saw the likeness; she had darker skin and curlier hair, but the resemblance in their expressions was unmistakable. Mrs Zabini was every bit as attractive and alluring as her son, and, judging by the way in which she carried herself, she was well aware of it.

'And this,' Blaise began to say, turning to Hermione, but Mrs Zabini raised an eyebrow at her and spoke before he could make the introduction.

'Ah yes, Miss Leblanc,' she said silkily. 'Draco was just telling me about you.'

'Was he,' Hermione said, giving Draco a look. He shrugged and turned his gaze back towards the head of the table where Yaxley had stood, Narcissa on his arm, leading her away. This left Hermione with little choice except to converse with the woman. 'It's a pleasure, Mrs—'

'Please, call me Aranea,' she insisted politely, smiling. 'So Draco tells me you're one of those "bookish people"...'

Talking to Aranea Zabini was very similar to talking to Narcissa Malfoy; she was propriety personified, but if you actually listened to what was being said, very little of it was complimentary or even particularly polite.

'...after all, you can't expect Muggle-borns to live up to a pure-blood standard,' she finished.

'Who could expect such a thing,' Hermione agreed, trying not to look insulted.

While Aranea held her attention, Blaise had slipped into the seat beside Draco and begun a whispered conversation that, from the looks of things, Draco was trying to forcefully ignore.

'It's all for the greater good in the end...' Aranea was saying, nodding smartly. Hermione was about three moments from inquiring as to how the woman's social affairs contributed to the "greater good" of the wizarding community, but before she could, both Blaise and Draco abruptly got to their feet and Blaise approached them.

'Ah, lovely,' Blaise said briskly, an engaging smile etched on his face, 'you two are getting along—'

Hermione felt slightly panicked by the casual smirk he was wearing. 'Actually—'

'—why don't you introduce Miss Leblanc to the coterie?' he suggested to his mother. 'She's been a bit out of the loop these past few months...'

'Oh, what a splendid idea,' Mrs Zabini agreed, looking interested. She gave Hermione a racy smile. 'You poor thing! Just _wait_ until you see little Merche, he's grown into _quite_ the young man—I suppose you can hardly complain about your current catch, but it's always good to have a backup—'

Mrs Zabini kept talking, but Hermione had stopped listening; she was glaring hotly at Blaise, who flashed her a grin and said, 'Malfoy and I'll catch up, you ladies have fun.'

'But I—'

'Sure, darling,' Mrs Zabini said without a second glance, leading Hermione deeper into the crowd, away from the table, by means of a hand at the small of her back. 'What did you say your name was? Ah, come look, it's Angus' young nephew. Good genes in that one, he'll be a piece worth considering in a few years—and Edmond Vasquez, handsome fellow, but had a new wife already last I heard—'

Hermione craned her neck, looking over their shoulders and trying to catch Draco's eyes—but she only caught a glimpse of the white-blonde hair stepping out of the hall, Blaise's tall figure following. She narrowed her eyes.

Blaise annoyed her at the best of times, and even if he was an invaluable spy, his methods left her suspicious and uncertain more often than not. Whatever Ginny saw in him, Hermione had no idea...

'Ah yes,' Mrs Zabini's voice interrupted her thoughts once more, 'and this one certainly deserves an introduction. I don't believe you two are familiar?'

Hermione turned back around and found herself face-to-face with a fairly handsome man dressed in dark robes who looked to be in his mid-forties. Wavy brown hair and a trimmed goatee framed an amicable face that smiled at her as he raised her proffered hand to his lips.

'Miss Leblanc,' Mrs Zabini was saying ostentatiously, 'I'd like you to meet Rabastan Lestrange.'

: : :

'Come on, Malfoy,' Blaise said, smirking. 'Let's see what four years' rust has done to your footwork.'

Blaise swung at him, and Draco parried it easily. He'd given Draco the longer of the two daisho blades; Blaise liked to prove his worth through a challenge. Draco attacked and Blaise dodged to the side, knocking his blade away with practised ease.

Draco narrowed his eyes, side-stepping as Blaise returned the attacks, forcing him backwards. 'You said you wanted to talk, Zabini. So talk.'

'I'm just a bit curious how you're still alive, is all,' Blaise replied, hitting hard and causing Draco to stagger under the blows. 'Especially with the way you treat people.'

'Since when are you concerned with my amiability?' Draco demanded, slamming his sword into Blaise's and bringing it to a halt.

'What I'm saying, Malfoy,' Blaise said, parrying a blow and returning it with force, causing Draco to dodge and retreat, 'is that you seem to be running out of friends, and if you're not careful, you're going to find yourself alone again.'

Draco's lips turned into a nasty snarl. 'You say it like I care.'

'Please,' Blaise said, smirking. 'I know you better than that.'

He parried Draco's attack and dodged the next, spinning effortlessly out of the way as Draco tried unsuccessfully to skewer him. Draco tried to hit him again, aiming high; Blaise blocked the blow with his sheath and swung low, nearly slicing Draco across the midsection.

'I don't consider them friends,' Draco snapped defiantly, dodging another blow with a quick movement of his head.

'You should,' Blaise returned, side-stepping Draco's next attack and returning it. Their blades met in mid-swing and Blaise paused, looking at him through the 'V' the blades formed. 'You're going to need them.'

'I got what I wanted from them already.'

Blaise withdrew and parried another blow, one-handed and looking bored.

'Just like how I got what I wanted from you?' he asked, smirking again.

Draco paused for the briefest moment, slightly stunned, then attacked with such vigour that it sent Blaise recoiling towards the wall behind him. The wand inlaid in the hilt he was grasping glowed hot under his touch, and red sparks exploded from the metal with every downward stroke. Even the clashing of the swords sounded furious, and Blaise was forced to stop as his back hit the wall and Draco's blade scraped down his own, spraying sparks and locking them at the hilt, bringing their faces close together.

'Let's get one thing straight, Zabini,' he snapped. 'You didn't get _shit_ from me.'

'Really?' Blaise asked, doing a marvellous job of looking sweaty and unconcerned. 'It would seem I certainly earned your contempt.'

'Piss off,' Draco snapped in return, shoving hard with the blade and throwing Blaise's shoulders back into the wall. 'You've got a lot of nerve, talking about friends and loyalties. Since when did _you_ start working for the Muggle-lovers, Zabini? Or are you just leading them on, like you did me?'

'Since when do you give a damn about my affairs?' Blaise replied, looking amused. He had the back of his head resting against the wall, his expression showing little concern and his weapon held firm even as the sharp scrape of the metal blades reached a painful degree. 'On that note, since when do you give a damn about anything that doesn't concern you or your bloody—'

Blaise felt the tremor through the blades and ducked out in time as Draco pulled the sword back and swung again, leaving a diagonal gash in the wall where Blaise's back had been just moments before. By the time Draco swung again, Blaise had his own sword up to meet him, and the repetitive slashing, curving arcs filled the air once again as they danced around the room, Draco pushing and Blaise keeping just out of reach of a deadly blow.

'You know, Malfoy,' Blaise said in between swings and pants of breath, 'you're not half bad at this when you're all in a stitch.'

Draco growled and launched himself forward, blade swinging relentlessly. Blaise parried his blows with effortless, one-handed swings; he looked entertained, a lazy smirk adorning his face.

The duel continued across the room, Blaise's clever footwork keeping him from being cornered by Draco's persistent driving as he deflected the attacks with tireless ease. Their movements were fast and almost blurred in the dim light of the room. It wasn't until the next time their swords locked that they noticed something was off.

The candles around the room flickered violently—once, twice—and went out silently, leaving behind tiny wisps of smoke. Draco was staring at Blaise through the thin space between their blades again, and as they looked at one another, he could see the warm mist of their breath as it was expelled into the suddenly freezing room.

Draco felt dread begin to claw at his insides. Blaise's expression went from cocky to bloodless in the space of two breaths.

'Shit,' Blaise said.

'Shit,' Draco agreed.

: : :

Harry felt them coming.

The weather in England had been persistently drab throughout every season over the past four years, springs, summers, autumns and winters alike; the ever-breeding Dementors patrolling the skies by day and streets by night had cast something of an eternal fog over the country.

Only on the brightest days did the sun manage to penetrate the mist in populated areas, and flying anywhere near major settlements was not only unpleasant but also extremely dangerous. Even the Death Eaters and pure-blood families had begun to fear the terrifying force that the Dementors had become under Voldemort's regime, because Dementors rarely discriminated between their victims these days. The MacDougals had found that out the hard way just the year before.

The night had been mild, if a bit chilly, and the force of the headwind hit Harry like a truck, freezing his lungs and face in one sweeping stroke that left spots behind his eyes and gave him the sensation that he'd just flown into a solid wall of ice.

He didn't need to see the black cloaks blocking out the stars, nor the large wave of darkness flowing in from the south-west towards the mansion below, to know what was approaching. The dread and terror and grief of ten years nearly overwhelmed him, the cold air stinging his eyes so badly that they were tearing.

Harry didn't even think, just reacted; he turned the handle of his Firebolt towards the whitewashed building below and dived.

: : :

'Mr... Lestrange,' Hermione repeated weakly.

Rabastan Lestrange looked nothing like his old Azkaban photographs; tall and stalwart, he brushed Hermione's knuckles with his lips before releasing her hand, which dropped to her side like a stone.

'Please,' he said, giving her a sultry smile, 'call me Rabastan.'

'She's accompanying young Malfoy,' Mrs Zabini added, with an air of one imparting privileged information.

'Is she really?' Rabastan asked, raising his eyebrows. 'Lucky girl.'

Hermione made a small noise that she tried to cover up with a half-hearted giggle.

Mrs Zabini seemed oddly pleased with this response and suddenly said, 'Oh, there's Cavelle! Rabastan, be a doll and look after her for a moment, would you?' And before Hermione could say a word, she'd whisked off into the crowd.

Leaving Hermione alone with a known Death Eater.

'A bit flitty, that one,' Rabastan said, watching Mrs Zabini disappear. He turned back to Hermione and offered her his arm. 'Shall we, Miss Leblanc?'

Hermione forced herself not to hesitate, joining him at the arm and letting him lead her through the throng of aristocrats chattering around them.

'So,' Rabastan said after a moment, 'how is young Draco?'

'As well as could be expected,' Hermione said, fighting to keep her voice level.

'I can't say that my expectations would be very high,' Rabastan replied, 'considering the recent loss of his father. He must be... devastated.'

'He's coping quite well,' Hermione assured him.

'Mm,' he hummed. 'I suppose such an inheritance would cheer anyone up.'

Hermione was not sure what to say to this. There was only one thought at the forefront of her mind at the moment, and it was that she should escape as soon as possible. She felt the arm entwined with hers stiffen and saw Rabastan's jaw clench as he flexed his fingers. He looked strangely distracted all of a sudden, and seemed to completely forget the topic at hand. Now was her chance...

'I, ah,' Hermione mumbled, thinking quickly, 'loo!'

'What? Oh, yes, of course,' he said dismissively, releasing her. He was looking past her, eyes slightly unfocused. 'I'll go and fetch Aranea for you...'

Hermione thanked him quickly and then made her way to the nearest bathrooms, tripping over the hem of her dress several times in the process, before dropping her purse on the sink and collapsing against the cold porcelain. Her hands were gripping the sink to keep from shaking.

It wasn't that she was distrusting of her abilities; she was more than confident that she could defend herself against a sole Death Eater—but Death Eaters rarely traveled alone, much less so out in the open—if the youngest Lestrange was here, surely his brother wasn't far behind... and if Rodolphus' wife was here...

Oh, God. She needed to find Draco.

Easier said than done; leaving the bathroom, Hermione found herself in a multicoloured conglomeration of people, not a single familiar face in sight. _Shit_. Blaise—she needed to find Blaise—but she was in a strange house, and a large one at that; he could be anywhere...

She looked from side to side, trying to decide which direction to start in—if she could get within a few yards of Draco, the Tracker on him would heat up the charmed ring on her left hand. Problem was, this place was _huge_, and getting within a few yards of him could take ages, and if one of the Lestranges found him first... and when did it get so dim in the room?

Hermione managed to move about two feet before the cold hit her, and the reason for the sudden absence of light and activity became clear.

A large space was gradually clearing in the middle of the crowd; people edged away, silent and terrified, giving the seven Dementors space as they glided into the middle of the room. The one at the centre, which seemed taller and more foreboding than the rest, paused with its hands spread wide and looked slowly from one side to the other.

It hissed only one raspy, unmistakable word: '_Malfoy_.'

No one uttered a word; it suddenly occurred to Hermione that if Blaise had not sneaked Draco off, they would have been in even worse a situation at the moment than she had been on the arm of the young Lestrange brother. Now, however, just _she_ was in the now-worse situation—at the lack of cooperation from the crowd, the Dementors hissed unpleasantly and broke apart, each moving in different directions to begin inspecting the guests one by one. After all, silly disguises and Invisibility Cloaks did not fool Dementors. They would know Draco when they saw him.

They would also know a Muggle-born.

_I need to get out of here. Now._

Fortunately, Hermione didn't seem to be the only one thinking this way. She was one of many in the crowd slowly but surely backing towards the nearest exit; some, perhaps, merely frightened a Dementor would get carried away, as happened far too often these days—some, probably just suffering from a guilty conscience. Whatever their reasons, they provided the necessary cover for Hermione to make her way towards the nearby hall, placing her back to the door frame before slipping around it slowly, eyes closed as she attempted to lock down her worst memories, her true identity, and the reason why she was here.

Once in the hall, she took a quick look around; the corridor to her left led further away from the main ballroom and, kicking off her shoes and seizing her skirt in her fists to lift it above her ankles, she took off at a run.

It felt as if she'd been running for half an hour. The corridor seemed endless, turning now and again, branching off into other halls or rooms or cascading staircases that led somewhere up above. She came to the third fork and nearly went left again before a low warmth on her finger halted her; she skidded to a stop, bare feet clapping against the cool marble floor, changing direction and heading down the right hall.

The ring on her finger grew warmer with every step; there was a door at the very end of this hall—Draco was probably on the other side...

The cold floor suddenly turned to ice, freezing the soles of her feet as a chilling gust of air swept around her like a small cyclone, and Hermione skidded to a halt once more.

Turning the corner before the door at the end of the hall, two tall, hooded figures came into view. Hermione drew in a sharp breath, her lungs screaming at the coldness of the air, and wheeled around; two more Dementors had entered the way she'd come, advancing steadily, arms outstretched.

Hermione instantly reached for her wand, only to discover her purse was missing; she'd left it in the bathroom, surprise at meeting a Death Eater and her haste to find Draco having distracted her. How could she have been so _stupid_... but she'd always been hopeless at casting the Patronus Charm anyway—the only spell she'd ever had difficulties with—and to conjure a Patronus strong enough to banish four Dementors bent on stealing her soul wasn't a sure thing. Only Harry had that kind of power—oh, _Harry_, she thought miserably, where was he—

Wandless and alone, she was helpless. You couldn't outrun a Dementor, and Voldemort had them on orders to Kiss any Muggle-born they stumbled upon.

The nearest Dementor paused several paces from her, lifting its slimy, skeletal hands to slowly lower its hood. Hermione had seen the featureless face of a Dementor before, barren except for the gaping hole of the mouth, but never so close—and never with its focus set on her. She stood there, too terrified to move, numb with a panic she was ashamed to acknowledge as every horrible thing she had ever experienced flashed before her eyes.

Ron was being struck down by the queen on a gigantic chessboard—_flash_—Hermione was covered head-to-toe in fur and sporting a tail—_flash_—she was crying outside Hagrid's cabin third year, believing the worst—_flash_—she was weeping after her row with Ron at the Yule Ball, hair and make-up in ruins—_flash_—Harry disappeared into the maze, only to return with Cedric's dead body—_flash_—Ron and Lavender Brown were embracing one another, mouths locked together and oblivious to her—

As the memories progressed, she felt cold, bony hands clutch her face and tilt it upwards. All the air seemed to rush out of her lungs and the chill struck the very core of her bones, causing her entire body to seize up and scream silently in agony.

This was it—the mouth was lowering towards her, gaping and empty and engulfing her spirit like a vacuum, and her eyes and tongue felt as if they were being sucked right out of her head...

Shrieks and screams erupted around her and the bony hands let go. She felt suspended for a moment, before her eyes and tongue and breath returned along with the warmth, and she crumpled to the floor in a heap. Someone was shouting—she recognised the voice, and saw a blur of black and white and green whirl past above her, and then something humongous and silver barrelled clear over her to follow the blur. Hermione clutched at her head, not bothering to try and stand. Her entire world seemed to be spinning, and she felt like she was suffocating despite the fact that she could hear herself breathing, in and out, in and out, over the sound of her rapidly beating heart...

Warm, strong hands slipped under her arms and hauled her upwards. Hermione swayed, clutching at his robes to steady herself. The once again brightly lit corridor swam before her eyes briefly before the world righted itself, and she stared at him, thoroughly dazed.

'What—?'

'Shh,' Draco said, placing a finger to her lips and shaking his head. After a moment to ensure she was staying silent, he removed his hand.

He was looking past her, over her shoulder. She followed his gaze and squinted, and saw a large, cat-like animal slinking towards them. The Patronus was a bit unclear and hazy, as if they were looking at it through a heavy rain, so it was impossible to distinguish exactly what it was. It stopped and sat before them, peering around as if looking for something, and then yawned silently as it melted away into the air, leaving no clue that it'd ever been there at all.

She blinked at the empty spot on the floor before a voice behind her made her jump in Draco's grip.

'It's getting weaker, Malfoy,' Blaise said quietly.

Hermione shivered, turning her gaze back to Draco, silently demanding an explanation. Draco's jaw was set, and he was staring at the empty spot the Patronus had vanished from. 'Yeah,' he said. 'I know.' He didn't offer anything further. Instead, he handed her her purse. She then realised she still had a death-grip on his robes and slowly let go, then took out her wand with shaking fingers. 'Do me a favour, darling,' he drawled, 'and _don't_ do anything that stupid ever again.'

'I,' she said, and stopped because her voice sounded strained and raw. She cleared her throat and tried again. 'You—I didn't know you could do that,' she said, looking again at the place where the large cat had sat. 'When did you learn to conjure a Patronus?'

Draco, having confirmed with a quick sweep of his eyes that she could stand on her own, stepped back and placed a respectable distance between them. He was giving her a funny look. 'You really think my father would allow his only heir _not_ to know the Patronus Charm when he knew for a fact what was coming? Mother spent the better part of those four years making sure I had it perfected.'

Hermione blinked, and then frowned, realising Draco had a good point. She also noticed he was holding one of Blaise's swords, and realised he must have used it to conjure the Patronus; she still had his wand in her purse, after all. She frowned at the empty spot on the floor, feeling light-headed. She blinked back up at Draco. 'I thought you hated cats?'

Draco blinked in return, looking slightly taken aback. He looked torn between amusement and displeasure, and settled on scowling. 'I do,' he said, and left it at that. He looked at Blaise. 'Where are they?'

Blaise looked hesitant, as if he wasn't sure whether to comply or not. Hermione was close to squeaking in pain from the grip Draco had on her arm.

Draco didn't wait a second more; he raised the sword still in his hand, both the blade and the wand in its hilt pointing at Blaise's chest. '_Where?_'

'Second floor,' Blaise said finally, seeming to decide Draco wasn't to be deterred. 'West wing, left at the top of the stairs. Double doors at the end.'

Just as Draco nodded, a coy, high-pitched voice from the other end of the hall wound itself around the corner. 'Draco? Draco darling, iz 'at you? We need to talk, cheri...'

'I'll head her off,' Blaise said quickly. 'Go, and assume you'll be followed.'

Hermione, still slightly in shock from the encounter and extremely confused, couldn't formulate a coherent protest as Draco seized her even harder by the elbow and began to drag her down the hall. She tried anyway. 'But—where are we—why were there—how could they—no idea we'd be—are you even listening to me!'

'Not really,' Draco deigned to reply, still tugging her along without much effort.

'Draco—'

'_Malfoy_, sweetcheeks.'

Hermione's mouth dropped open in a look of complete indignation that probably would have amused Draco if he weren't so desperately preoccupied. His words had the intended effect, though, as Hermione was so thrown off that she hadn't managed to muster a response by the time he'd dragged her up the wide marble staircase and down the west wing that Blaise had given them directions to.

She could see the double doors at the end—a dark and enormous carved wooden barrier that grew even larger as they approached them—and Hermione wondered how they would get inside, for surely such big doors would be sealed with enchantments of all kinds that could take hours to disarm. She did not share this thought with Draco, who seemed quite determined as he stormed right up to them, face set unnaturally rigidly.

Just as they came within reach, Hermione felt the cold wash of the Dementors spill over her and someone inside shouted.

Draco didn't even try the doorknob; releasing her, he bared his teeth and slashed a long, downward arc with the sword in his hand. A flash of red light burst from the blade and the door shuddered, cracked, bending inwards as if struck by the club of a giant. Draco slashed again, and the doors burst open with a sickening lurch and an explosion of splinters.

Hermione ducked to the floor and shielded her face with her arms, and then felt a firm hand on her elbow again, pulling her to her feet. It was something Harry would have done: looking after her even though she wasn't his number one priority, even when his goal should have been much more important to him than ensuring her safety. She dimly wondered where in the fray of Draco's mind, amidst the terror for his mother, he had remembered she was even there, disorientated and vulnerable.

Or what part of him cared, for that matter.

: : :

Harry shot headfirst through the window, elbow and forearm covering his face and forehead. Shards of glass clawed at his robes as he ducked and rolled off his broom onto the floor, crashing into the side of something solid and wooden. There was a startled gasp, a shuddering hiss and a cackle like the sound of clattering chains, and Harry shook the spots from his eyes and jumped to his feet, drawing his wand.

Three Dementors were in the bedroom, two advancing on the partially-robed, blindingly golden figure of Draco's mother by the bed.

'_The boy_,' one of them croaked at her, its voice shuddering at every syllable. '_Where is the boy?'_

The third, behind her, had turned its featureless face to Harry and now began to glide towards him, slimy hands outstretched.

Harry thrust his wand forward at the same time Narcissa did, and two loud, identical shouts of _'Expecto patronum!'_ broke the icy silence in the room.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Harry had the insane thought that he'd managed to do a double-cast of a Patronus Charm. A moment later, the logical part of his mind recovered and told him that was idiotic, because it was impossible to double-cast any sort of spell, and that there were simply two Patronuses galloping through the room: one, Harry's stag, twelve-points held high and trampling the nearest Dementor to him; the second, a very familiar-looking horse, delicately dished head lowered in a charge at the Dementor advancing on Narcissa. They shrieked and fled, escaping by means of the balcony window Harry had just crashed through.

There was a sickening hiss from the third Dementor as the two Patronuses galloped around, converged and charged, side-by-side, headlong into the cloaked figure.

It wasn't until the creature had vanished into the night that the Patronuses stilled; Harry's stag turned its head back to look at him before dissolving into the night air. Narcissa's horse trot-glided back to her, tossing its head, dissipating as it reached her, briefly encasing her with silver mist.

Narcissa studied him for a moment, golden hair cascading around her face and bare shoulders. Her dress was tossed aside at the foot of the bed and she stood wrapped in a thin nightgown, looking entirely too beautiful and relaxed for a woman who had just been attacked by a squad of Dementors.

'As you can see, I am more than capable of taking care of myself,' she said to him finally, re-sheathing her wand in the thin leather case strapped to her forearm. He almost frowned but stopped when she smiled at him. 'But thank you anyway, Mr Potter. Your Patronus is every bit as impressive as my son has relayed.'

Before Harry could ask her what she meant, the door behind him exploded inwards, causing both himself and Narcissa to jump. Draco came hurtling into the room, a long sword in one hand and the other gripping Hermione by the elbow as she tripped over her dress in an attempt to keep up. Narcissa looked up at her son and smiled faintly as he stood, panting, in the demolished doorway and stared between her and Harry, looking furious.

'What in the hell—'

'I'm quite all right, darling,' Narcissa intervened smoothly. She was pulling a cloak around her shoulders, hiding her indecency—not that anything about that woman could really be labelled indecent, his mind added as an afterthought. Harry shook his head to clear it, and Narcissa's voice flooded his consciousness once more. '—looking for you, it would appear.'

Harry turned his eyes back to Draco and Hermione; Draco appeared highly agitated, but Hermione looked ashen and a bit ill. 'Did they—'

'They tried,' Hermione answered, anticipating his question. 'I—Draco got rid of them.'

Draco said, 'Not _now_, Granger,' just as Harry asked, stunned, 'Mal—?'

'Children,' Narcissa interrupted quickly. 'I do not think their presence will go unquestioned for long. If Gervasio discovers my son was the target—'

'He won't put himself in any danger to protect him,' Harry agreed. 'It's all right, Hermione has a Portkey to—'

'No Portkeys,' Hermione said. 'Not on the mansion grounds, Harry... there's spells to track the course... they'd know exactly where we'd gone...'

'Well, we can't Apparate out of here!' Harry said, frustrated. 'The Firebolt will only fly two—'

'You're not leaving my mother here,' Draco interjected sharply.

'You won't need to _leave_ me,' Narcissa intervened swiftly, 'because I fully intend to stay.'

There was a tense, icy moment of silence following these words in which Harry and Hermione both came to an unspoken mutual agreement to remove themselves from the discussion.

Draco turned back to face his mother. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Darling, be reasonable,' she said in a diplomatic voice. 'You've just appeared unexpectedly at a début ball after several years' seclusion, a ball that just happens to be interrupted by a brigade of Dementors? Gervasio may be easy to manipulate, but he is not a simpleton. He will have a good idea of why they are here. If I disappear with you—'

'You'll be safe!' Draco snapped.

'—I'll simply be confirming his suspicions. He'll lock down everything he possesses, and my efforts tonight will have gone to waste,' she finished in a frighteningly low voice. The look in her eyes was positively dangerous. 'If I remain, I can do my best to convince him it was a coincidence and, more importantly, occupy him while the Ministry do what they have to.'

'We're not leaving you here,' Draco snarled.

'You're not staying with me, either,' she snapped in a sharp voice that made Harry wince, but when she spoke again, her voice had returned to its diplomatic tone. 'Miss Granger.'

'Yes?' Hermione said, voice wavering.

She caught the small, glass vial Narcissa tossed at her. 'What you need,' Narcissa said. Hermione peered inside briefly, then nodded.

Narcissa, satisfied, turned her gaze to Harry. 'Mr Potter, you'll need to get off the property before a Portkey can be safely activated. The coast to the west is the nearest border.'

Harry also nodded. 'But how do we—'

Draco looked furious at being ignored. He whirled on Harry. 'We're not leaving her here!'

'Draco!' This time, Draco winced as well, and Harry suddenly felt like he should look away; Narcissa had come up beside her son, turned him around by the shoulder and pulled him into a swift hug that Draco all but collapsed into. 'It's not up to him. Nor is it up to you.'

Draco was shaking his head, face buried in her shoulder, and said something Harry couldn't make out. Now Harry did look away, embarrassed and unsure why, and saw Hermione doing the same. She was frowning at the floor, flushed and rubbing her shoulders.

Harry heard Narcissa whisper behind them, 'I _will_ come back to you.'

Harry thought it was probably for the best that he forget the glisten in Draco's eyes as he let his mother go, and led Harry and Hermione out of the room.

: : :

_In war, truth is the first casualty;_

_The innocent are second._

- Aeschylus

: : :

Voldemort never ceased to marvel at his own brilliance.

It was not an easy feat, bringing a man like Marius Constantine to his knees. And yet, Voldemort possessed the ability to do so without lifting so much as an ill-concerned finger. Overall, he felt he was due congratulations for his unfailing methods of persuasion. A little push here, a little pull there, and he could get even the most stalwart wizard to bend to his every will and desire without breaking a sweat.

'I won't tell you a damn thing,' Marius snarled.

Ah, the rebellious type, Voldemort mused. His methods were almost completely flawless and always, sooner or later, effective, but there was little he could do to deter foolish stubbornness.

The girl wailed from behind them, and the Dark Lord closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to calm himself, lest he lose his patience and kill the wench now.

'Let's not have this conversation again,' Voldemort said impatiently, opening his eyes. 'You know what I want.'

When Marius did not reply, Voldemort scowled slightly. Oh, so it _was_ going to be a long night after all.

Well, at least he'd make it entertaining.

'Bring her forward,' he commanded lazily.

Marius looked up as the two men dragged the child forward—less of a child and more of a woman, Voldemort observed idly, except for perhaps the way in which she was sobbing and making a mess of herself. Theodore and Antonin dropped her unceremoniously on the floor and she quickly shied away from the former. Theodore looked positively charmed by his effect on her.

Sick creature, that one. It was one of the reasons Voldemort favoured the boy over his sire: this one had potential.

Marius looked at his daughter, and Voldemort's smile grew as he witnessed the resolve in the man's eyes falter.

'Now, old friend,' Voldemort began diplomatically. 'I feel it is safe to assume I do not need to detail the myriad uses to which my men could put such a pretty girl if I were so inclined as to indulge them.'

Marius did not look away from his daughter, who was staring up at him, pleading with her eyes. She wanted to live, and she was looking for reassurance that everything would be all right; that her father would do something, _anything_, to save her from this horrible nightmare she'd fallen into.

Voldemort decided to shatter this hopeful little daydream, and squatted low beside the shackled man, tilting his head and smiling engagingly. 'And do not think I would deprive you of the pleasure of witnessing what sort of imaginations my men possess. Tell me what I want to know, Marius, and I swear I will kill her quickly.'

Inevitably, effective. It was so easy to break these Gryffindor types, their compassion their biggest and most easily exploited weakness. They were as foolhardy as they were gullible.

When Marius had told him everything, Voldemort stood back up and smiled. 'Thank you,' he said politely, dusting off his hands. He pulled out his wand and Marius looked over at his daughter, his broken spirit evident in eyes full of despair—which was soon replaced by surprise as the Dark Lord did not execute the girl, but magically bound the man with an idle flick of his wand.

'Really, I'm disappointed,' Voldemort said, smirking down at the immobile but fully conscious wizard. 'Your kind is far too trusting.'

'My Lord?' Theodore asked, sounding enthused.

'Yes, yes,' Voldemort said with an impatient wave of his hand as he turned to leave. 'Have your fun.'

The girl's scream was cut off as Voldemort closed the door behind him, and found himself looking down on a rather pathetic heap of robes. 'What is it, Wormtail?'

Wormtail immediately recoiled and sank to his knees, head bowed in both respect and supplication, and said the last thing in the world that Voldemort wanted to hear.

'My Lord, we have a problem.'

: : :

'Son of a—'

'Careful!'

'It just _bit_ me!'

'_Quiet_!'

Harry growled under his breath. The bearskin rug on the floor growled back, baring its teeth at his foot again. He had half a mind to set it on fire.

'Potter.'

Draco's voice was usually curt, but never this raw. The sound of it caused Harry's murderous sentiments towards the rug to dissipate. 'Sorry,' he said, keeping his voice low. 'That's the third one in five minutes. Are you sure we're going the right way?'

'Sure?' Draco almost laughed, replacing the sword in the sheath he'd strapped to his waist. 'I have no fucking idea where I'm going.'

'I thought you'd been here—'

'I haven't attended a début ball since I was nine,' Draco informed him, still pulling Hermione along by the wrist. She seemed too shaken to complain and hurried along in his wake, leaving Harry to try and keep up behind them. 'And I never left my father's side; he was always worried Yaxley would try to off his only heir. I'm starting to think he was right—try in here.'

Harry followed them into the darkened room, just as voices began to creep around the corner of the hallway they'd been rushing down. Harry wasn't sure if they were being followed, but he had no intention of finding out.

The top of the handle of his Firebolt, strapped to his back, snagged on something hanging off one of the walls, nearly tripping him. 'Bugger,' he muttered. 'Lumos.'

Hermione looked around at the light, and screamed.

Draco clamped his hand over her mouth, pulling her back and up against him; she almost immediately quieted, but her eyes were still wide, staring at what had snagged the handle of Harry's broom. He looked up and around, and felt all the blood in his head and shoulders immediately drain away. He tried to make a sound, and found that all the air had escaped his lungs. He quickly inhaled and nearly choked. Even Draco looked a bit pale.

The decapitated head of a Basilisk was mounted on a wooden plaque against the wall by the door, mouth wide, fangs long and gleaming in the feeble light of Harry's wand. It was so close that Harry could practically feel the hot, putrid breath over his shoulder, bearing down on him, hissing and blind and furious, hell bent on ripping him apart—

'Potter.' Draco's voice was still curt but less raw, and Harry wondered how he noticed the change when all he could hear in his head was that horrible rasping voice, calling for blood over and over again. 'It's dead. We have to go.'

_It's dead_.

Yes, Harry thought. Of course it was dead. He'd killed it himself. He'd killed them _both_, and he'd kill every other one that crossed his path, even if he tore his soul to shreds in the process.

'Yes,' Harry said aloud, rubbing his temple with one hand. Hermione gave him a concerned look, but he turned his gaze to Draco. 'Sorry. Yeah. Go.'

Draco nodded and continued through the room, looking for an exit. He pulled Hermione with him, and she shot another look of concern over her shoulder, but Harry carefully avoided it.

The room was long and wide with a low ceiling; it seemed to be some sort of a trophy room, with many plaques and ornaments along the walls and mantles. Harry saw Hermione wrinkle her nose at the stuffed, boar-like Tebo against the wall, silvery fur shimmering in the light from their wands. Harry felt his jaw clench as he spied a unicorn pelt draped over a large chair; the brilliant white fur was unmistakable, impossible to confuse with that of any other animal, magical or otherwise.

The sports of rich wizards were just as bad as their Muggle counterparts, no matter how much the pure-blood community denied it. They were all such a bunch of _hypocrites_.

It took another five minutes or so of winding trails, retraced steps, and doubling-back before Draco came to a halt and took a short breath.

'Right,' he said, with dignity. 'I'm lost.'

Harry had the immensely immature urge to slap him. 'Took you long enough to figure that out,' he said instead.

'Well, since sneaking around in big, dark buildings when you're not supposed to be is more _your_ speciality,' Draco said scathingly, 'how about _you_ lead the way, hero?'

Harry scowled. 'Don't call me that.'

'Most people would be flattered.'

'I'm not most people.'

'Oh, no,' Draco said, looking smug. 'I forgot. You're _special_.'

Harry's hands closed into fists and he went to snap back, but Hermione placed herself between them before he could make a move. 'Really, you two could _not_ have worse timing.'

Harry started to speak again, this time in his own defence, but a low, ancient-sounding voice from behind cut him short.

'Cursed armies of the Underworld. Put out that infernal light, warmblood.'

'Sorry, what?' said Harry.

Hermione and Draco stared at him.

Harry turned around and found himself presented with a wall of glass. He could see himself reflected in it, bathed in his wand's light. He muttered 'Nox' and the light faded as he knelt down and peered into the tank, squinting hard.

Slitted yellow eyes gleamed at him from the darkness on the other side. Harry felt strangely relieved.

Behind him, Hermione said, 'Harry, what are you—'

'Shh,' Harry interrupted, standing. 'I have an idea.'

: : :

Draco Malfoy was well aware of his tendency to be a bit overly dramatic in any number of situations. He was aware of his propensity to panic, to make wild and unfounded accusations if doing do was in his own best interests, and to sporadically collapse due to self-induced nervous breakdowns. He liked to consider all of this to be part of the flair that made him such an incredibly awesome person to be around.

At least, he thought, he wasn't some psychotic, malformed half-blood obsessed with taking over the world. At least he wasn't running about with a mask over his face, jabbing his wand at random Muggles to see what grotesque results would occur. At least, he reasoned, he wasn't some hedgehog-haired wannabe martyr with a dented forehead who saw nothing out of the ordinary in trying to coax an escape route out of a giant ruddy snake.

'Potter, that thing could _eat you_.'

'Shh,' Harry responded distractedly, English still thick with the sibilant tones of Parseltongue.

The boa constricter, or, as Draco had renamed it, the baby Basilisk—a much more fitting description, in his opinion—was now rearing up on the other side of the glass, bringing its head even with Harry's shoulders. Dirty, glowing yellow eyes shone bright in the darkness of the tank as the snake opened its mouth, and a breathless string of hisses flowed over them, causing Draco to shiver.

Harry responded in turn, and Draco felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as the sound surrounded them; the hisses penetrated his skin, pushing a wave of goosebumps down his arms, and beside him, he felt Hermione shudder similarly. The change in Harry's appearance was subtle and disturbing; green eyes began to glow with a dirty, luminescent yellow, dilated and unblinking, mouth just barely open to allow the harsh tones to slip out. He looked both terrifying and intriguing, and Draco remembered the influence such an aura could have when properly employed. If only Harry realised the kind of power he could wield...

Then a second, very odd thought wormed its way into Draco thoughts: that perhaps he was wrong, and Harry did know. Maybe that was why he kept to himself so much. He was just as scared of his power as the rest of the world was.

The snake turned its dirty eyes to where Draco and Hermione stood and hissed once, long and low; Harry frowned.

'What is it, Harry?' Hermione asked.

'He won't tell me,' Harry said, turning to look at them. 'But he says he'll show me.'

It took a moment for this to properly sink in.

'You want to let it _out?_' Draco demanded. He really hadn't intended for his voice to be so high-pitched.

'He can show us the quickest way off the grounds—'

'And then eat us in peace and quiet where no one will think to come to our aid!'

'You prefer being lost in the dark in a house full of Dementors?'

'As opposed to being dragged off into the woods and eaten alive?'

'He won't hurt us,' Harry said with confidence, and raised his wand to the screen serving as a roof to the enormous tank. With an idle wave of his wand, the screws began to loosen, slowly rotating out and falling with quiet _thuds_ to the tiled floor.

'Oh, really? And what gave you that impression? The massive size of his fangs or the sultry tone of his voice?' Draco demanded, backing away.

'Snakes are more trustworthy than you'd think.' Harry lowered the cage lid onto the floor, directing it with the tip of his wand, the boa inside looking up curiously at its newfound freedom. 'And surprisingly loyal.'

'Harry...' Hermione said quietly, her tone indicating that she was just as uncertain about the legitimacy of this statement as Draco was.

'Why do you think Nagini has remained with Voldemort so long?' Harry demanded. Draco flinched at the name and hit the wall behind him. 'Snakes are as honour-bound as dragons, especially to Parselmouths.'

'And what about us?' Draco snapped.

Harry looked over at him. 'Do you have a better idea?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. First of which is an ideal place you could shove that broom—'

Draco abruptly stopped talking as the snake, coloured black by the darkness, slithered headfirst over the top of the tank that had been serving as its home, thick body following the trail over the top and back down to the floor, where it coiled itself around Harry's feet. Harry hissed at it, and it hissed back, almost contently, and began to glide away, in the opposite direction to the door.

Harry followed it, giving them what he probably thought was a reassuring look. Draco did not feel very reassured at all. He watched the dark, slithering shape disappear down the crowded aisle with Harry's shadowy figure trailing behind, and shuddered. This was all too familiar...

'Come on,' Hermione whispered, her fingers closing softly around his wrist. 'Harry's never led us wrong before.'

For a moment, he didn't react. Then, suddenly, he remembered who it was and jerked away from her as if he'd been scalded. She gave him a reproachful look but did not comment, and walked after Harry, leaving him there.

Draco frowned and, after a moment of hesitation, followed quickly after them.

: : :

'Oooh, why do they have to do this at _night_?' Hermione whispered in outrage, indicating the many sprinklers. The ground outside was soaking wet and her bare feet were covered in blades of grass and mud; the bottom half of her dress had been effectively destroyed by climbing through a broken window, tumbling six feet to the ground below and fighting their way through various walls of shrubbery.

'To discourage nocturnal rutting in the garden, I'd expect,' Draco commented briskly. She gave him a filthy look.

Harry was ahead of them, half-walking, half-jogging to keep up with the boa constricter. The snake was invisible to Hermione in the darkness, but she could hear it and Harry, whispered hisses floating back to where she and Draco trailed behind, her wand out but not lit—Harry's voice and the snake's eyes were their only guides through the pitch-blackness.

After trotting through the soaking grounds for a good ten minutes, Hermione began getting tired, tripping over her dress as the hem caught on stray twigs, limping when her bare feet struck the occasional rock. At one point, her foot caught a root and she pitched forward, finding herself, not for the first time that night, in the arms of Draco Malfoy.

'You really are the worst undercover agent ever,' he told her, sighing dramatically.

As he set her upright, Hermione resisted the urge to kick him. 'You really are the worst _gentleman_ ever,' she huffed, dusting herself off just as Harry called back in a loud whisper, 'What the hell are you two doing? I think they've—'

There was a bang and a small explosion of smoke, and a shriek in the distance made them both freeze; Hermione wheeled around. What appeared to be a wall of Dementors was gliding towards them from the direction they'd come, overlapping cloaks forming a nightmarish blockade, completely blocking their view of the mansion beyond. Hermione moved to run and tripped over the same root; this time, Draco wasn't there to catch her.

He had frozen like a rabbit in headlights at the sight of the oncoming Dementors.

The largest and foremost raised its grimy hands to its hood and pulled it back, exposing the featureless grey face and gaping hole of a mouth. '_Come._'

Hermione could hear footsteps behind her, she heard the incantation, and someone shouting in the distance...

A great white stag went barrelling between them, antlers lowered at the oncoming Dementors. They shrieked and scattered, flying out of the way, several coming from the sides now, hands outstretched—Hermione thrust her wand forward; it emitted a feeble silver vapour that died away almost instantly.

Harry's Patronus leapt over her, strong and bright, driving them back, but in doing so, it left Draco unprotected—Hermione rolled over in the grass just in time to get blinded by a huge ball of white light. Squinting and back-pedalling towards Harry, she was able to discern the outline of the silver shape in front of Draco.

The bear bellowed silently, swinging its paws, towering as tall as the Dementors as it reared onto its hind legs. Draco leapt backwards, startled by the strange Patronus, tripping over the old root and landing with a squishy thud beside Hermione. The Dementors screeched and hissed their agitation, but in the presence of two powerful Patronuses they were forced to retreat, melting into the night and leaving the grounds eerily empty and silent. Hermione only dared breathe when the warm breeze returned, assuring her that at least for now, they were gone.

Harry hooked a hand under her arm and lifted her to her feet; she stumbled, a bit dazed, and looked up in time to see the giant bear disappear and a tall, dark figure emerge from behind it.

'What the hell are you gawking at?' Blaise demanded as he trotted into view, looking harassed. 'Do you think they won't be back? Go!'

Draco had gotten to his feet himself, shoving Harry's proffered hand away with a nasty look on his face. 'You want me to leave her here?' Draco demanded, rounding on Harry. 'With these things swarming the place? I'd rather turn myself in than—'

'And what would that accomplish, Malfoy?' Harry snapped. 'You think she'd be safe if you went and got yourself killed?'

'What the fuck do you care if I do?'

'They will be coming _back_,' Blaise interrupted harshly, shoving the two apart and glaring at Harry briefly before turning to Draco. '_You_ are what they're after. She'll be safe as long as she's under Yaxley's wing. You, on the other hand, need to go. Now.'

Draco looked very much as though he'd like to argue the point. Blaise seemed to anticipate this, and added, 'I'll look after her, Malfoy. I swear I will. Now go!'

: : :

Draco slammed the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place with such force that the entire entryway shook. Harry saw Hermione shy away from him, looking alarmed. Harry didn't blame her; Draco's magical aura was pulsing with fury. Standing this close to him was suffocating.

'It's only for a couple of days,' Hermione attempted weakly, hoping to mollify him. 'Your mum's a very talented witch, Draco, she'll be—'

'Oh, right, I forgot,' he sneered, the volume of his voice rising with every word. 'It's _only_ a couple of days in a house with that—'

'Don't you shout at her,' Harry interrupted, his temper flaring as Hermione winced at Draco's words. 'Your mother made up her own mind, Malfoy.'

'My mother shouldn't have been there in the first place!'

'Yeah? Says who? You?' Harry snapped back, ignoring Hermione's 'Harry, _please_.' 'It seems your mother is more willing to help us than you are! Or maybe you're just a coward with nothing to lose like your bastard father!'

Draco swung at him and Hermione shrieked, casting a Shield Charm between the two of them as Harry ducked the blow and moved to retaliate. Draco glowered at him through the transparent shield, eyes glazed with cold fury.

'Don't you bring my father into this, Potter!'

Harry snorted. 'Or _what?_'

'Or it'll be the last fucking thing you do, that's what!'

'Oh, will you both just _stop!_'

'I _have_ stopped!' Draco exclaimed in outrage, eyes still focused on Harry. 'I stopped the moment I came begging for help, in case you didn't notice! You didn't know my father, Potter, whatever you think—and I don't care how good a wizard you fancy yourself to be, he was twice the man you are!'

'Oh yeah? Is that why he let that happen to your mother?'

Harry regretted the words the moment they'd left his mouth; he saw Hermione stare at him, looking as if she couldn't believe it was her Harry that had just said it. He expected Draco to attack him again.

Draco surprised him by instead closing his eyes and laughing low in his throat. The sound wasn't pleasant.

'At least _my_ father,' he said slowly, looking back up at Harry, 'was able to protect his wife and son enough to keep them both alive.'

Harry's throat tightened, and he could see tears in Hermione's eyes, though the magical make-up remained flawless as they ran down her cheeks.

'Harry, please,' Hermione was pleading with him. 'Just stop. This isn't helping anybody.'

_It's helping me_, Harry thought bitterly. Or it had been, lashing out at Draco, until Draco had, not for the first time, floored him with the irrefutable truth.

They and their families had both been in danger from Voldemort; and where James had failed to defend and hide his family, Lucius had succeeded.

_So far_, Harry reminded himself.

'They were betrayed,' Harry heard himself saying. 'My father did everything he could—'

'As did mine,' Draco interrupted shortly, a challenge lining his tone.

'And both James and Lucius are dead now,' Hermione said quietly, and they both looked at her. 'Both trying to protect their families, both by the same hand. So—' she took a deep, shaky breath, looking between them as if expecting them to start shouting again, '—they've done all they can. Now it's up to you two to make sure their sacrifices weren't in vain.'

Harry glanced at Draco and saw him watching Hermione with cold suspicion; the idea that she was defending rather than badmouthing Lucius Malfoy, a man who would have killed her as soon as looked at her, was obviously not something he was willing to believe. But he did not comment, and turned his gaze back to Harry.

'If anything happens to her, Potter,' he said slowly, 'the deal is off.'

'She was granted immunity,' Harry returned angrily. 'Whatever else she does is up to her, not you, and it doesn't affect the deal.'

'The hell it doesn't!'

'She's a grown woman, she can make her own—'

'She's all I have left!' Draco shouted at him furiously, chest and shoulders heaving beneath his miraculously still pristine dress robes. 'And I swear to Merlin if _anything_ happens to her, I _will_ have nothing to lose and you'll find out just what kind of bastard I can really be!'

Harry stared at him. He didn't even register the threat; he'd been aware that Narcissa was fond of her son and that, to some degree, the fondness was reciprocated. But the relationship Draco had with his mother seemed to have become more than that, something desperate—an obsession with protecting one another, with getting one another out of this alive, each risking their own life to do it.

If it kept up like this, both of them would end up dead.

'Nothing is going to happen to your mother,' Harry told him, and Hermione let out a breath she'd been holding. Draco was glaring at him still. 'You just need to relax—'

'Relax,' Draco repeated, almost laughing.

'She's just trying to look after you—'

'No, really?' Draco snapped. 'I don't need looking after. _She _needs looking after. That's why—'

'Why don't you trust her to at least look after herself?' Harry demanded. 'Your mum's a fully qualified witch, and smarter than she looks—'

'Because, Potter, I don't want her ending up like yours!'

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione draw another sharp breath and hold it. She did that a lot when she thought he might lose his temper, when she was worried that half the glass in the room would explode, that someone would end up in St Mungo's... Harry resisted the urge to bite back, to hit Draco for talking about that, like he had any idea... at least he was _alive_ and his mother was alive and there was something he could do about...

_But he is_, an annoying little voice that sounded suspiciously like Hermione was saying to him. _He _is_ trying to do something about it, and you're supposed to be helping him._

Why should he? Draco didn't deserve it. Why should he go out of his way to protect something of _Lucius Malfoy's..._

_Don't think about it like that_, the voice chided. _Dumbledore was trying to protect them, too._

And a fat lot of good it did him, Harry thought angrily. He'd long ago gotten angry, furious even, with how Dumbledore had left things, and then gotten angry at himself; Dumbledore had hardly wanted to die, after all.

'Harry,' Hermione said quietly, laying one of her hands on his forearm and bringing him out of his reverie.

'Excuse me,' Draco said before Harry could muster a retort. He turned and walked into the adjacent living room, closing the door behind him. Moments later Harry heard a loud _crash_ from inside, as if someone had hurled the huge vase on the mantelpiece into the fireplace.

The door re-opened and Draco came back into the hall, flexing his fingers but otherwise looking considerably more relaxed.

'Feel better?' Harry asked sardonically.

'A little,' Draco admitted, not looking at him. 'So, if that'll be it, I think I'll go have a kip before heading back to the Manor...'

'Malfoy,' Harry said as Draco went to slip up the stairs. 'Tomorrow, I want what you've promised us.'

Draco paused on the stairs, turning back to look at Harry over his shoulder. 'Tomorrow?'

'Yes,' Harry said. 'Is that a problem?'

Draco snorted derisively and turned away, making his way up the staircase. 'Would it matter if it was?'

: : :

Wiltshire was hazy and crisp the next morning, and bright sunbeams cast curtains of light through the thick mist around Malfoy Manor. Inside, Hermione was comfortably warm, wrapped in a thick blanket and curled up in a swede settee that had probably cost more than her house in its entirety.

It was terribly soft, however, and though she disapproved of the amount of money the Malfoys spent on furniture, it felt good against her sore limbs. She had lazily dressed in a loose summer dress, tucking her bare legs and feet under her protectively as she sipped her tea. Wearing heels and a corset all evening had been a lot harder than Narcissa had made it look.

'What's taking him so long?' Harry demanded.

'Relax, Potter,' Draco said tiredly. 'I imagine it's quite well buried, or Weaselbud senior would have confiscated it long ago.'

Ron, surprisingly, just rolled his eyes and ignored him. Hermione tossed him a grateful smile. Harry, however, huffed and folded his arms again, shifting impatiently.

The small study they were using was adjacent to the library; the only entrance was past the nightingale floor and a series of enchantments that Draco had assured them (and which Hermione had then confirmed after checking them herself) were all but impenetrable. It was the safest place to talk about Horcruxes outside of Grimmauld Place, and with Snape still able to access the old Headquarters, this was probably their best bet.

'This better not be a load of crap, Malfoy,' Harry growled. 'Or you can forget about any deal that keeps you out of Azkaban.'

'Is he always like this?' Draco inquired mildly of Hermione, giving her a look.

'No,' she said, yawning. She was still quite tired. 'Just around you.'

It was another ten minutes before Nivens returned, scuttling quickly through the arrangement of lounges and coffee tables in the sitting room. He was carrying a large, ornate box made of dark wood and inscribed with runes and Latin words Hermione did not recognise.

Draco took the box as the three of them watched, and laid his hand over the rune in the centre of the lid. Hermione heard a faint click and watched the circular edge begin to rotate under his palm. The lid slid open as he removed his hand, revealing a dark interior with a few overlapping items. One of which caught her eye immediately—

'Is that a wand?' Ron demanded.

Draco raised an eyebrow and removed the wand, holding it delicately between two fingers. 'My original, from Ollivanders,' he explained.

Harry looked outraged. 'You were supposed to surrender your wands! The agreement said that you were supposed to turn them over to us while you were under supervision—'

'Actually, Potter,' Draco interrupted, 'the contract stated that I needed to turn over my _wand_; as it failed to specify further, I was required only to surrender my current wand, the one on my person—not any other wand or wands that I may have had at my disposal elsewhere.'

'That's such a load of—' Ron began.

'Furthermore,' Draco went on, replacing the wand in the box as Harry went to take it, 'as said contract has already been agreed upon and signed, as long as both parties adhere to their terms, it cannot be altered, and although I cannot keep a wand on my person without express permission from yourself, I _am_ allowed to keep one in my possession.'

'Don't try this loophole crap with me, Malfoy,' Harry warned. 'If you think I'm going to let you—'

'You're going to have to, Harry,' Hermione said quietly, silently cursing her own stupidity. She scowled at Draco as he smirked. 'Draco's right. There's nothing we can do about that.'

'_Malfoy_, Granger,' Draco corrected briskly. 'And of course I'm right; you think that, with the price that's been put on my head, I would have signed a deal designating that I could have no wand within reach? You're out of your mind.'

Hermione gave him a look, ignoring his comments. '_As__long_ as _both_ parties keep to their terms,' she reminded him firmly. 'So I hope there's a set of directions to an exact location in that little box of yours, or we may be amending said contract.'

'You won't need any directions,' Draco said, raising an eyebrow. 'I have it here.'

: : :

'You what?' Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. 'Honestly, Potter, do I have to spell it out? Here.'

He shoved a rather flat, thick velvet box at Harry, the kind held shut by springs and usually made smaller to hold rings. Harry eyed it suspiciously. It was black and unmarked, and extremely heavy for something so small.

'What is this?'

Draco raised his eyebrows. 'What you want,' he said simply. 'Open it.'

Harry did. He didn't look up or speak for a very long time.

It was so very different from the one he and Dumbledore had retrieved. Larger, and a duller gold as befitted its age, this locket was wedge-shaped, and after a moment Harry realised it was actually moulded to look like a snake's head; the locket was so old that most of the scales had been worn smooth, but two emerald-studded eyes gleamed at him as he looked it over, and he noticed two pointy fangs overlapping the bottom lip, sealing it closed.

'Where did you get this?' Harry breathed, flaring up at Draco.

'My mother,' he said simply, setting the box aside and sitting back. He seemed unable to hold Harry's gaze, and was instead looking at the spot over his shoulder. 'It was included in a box full of assorted items that Kreacher delivered the night he informed the Dark Lord of your... affections for Black,' he finished carefully.

'But Sirius left everything to me,' Harry snapped. 'All of this stuff was mine!'

'Actually, Sirius left you the house and any effects within, if you want to get technical,' Draco informed him. 'The rightful owners of any small, pre-obtained artefacts were granted full possession of their items.'

'So your mother was able to keep any jewellery or clothes she acquired from relatives, like Sirius' mother,' Hermione added, nodding. 'That makes sense, Harry. There's no way Sirius would have guessed something like that was so important—'

'So you've just kept it all this time?' Harry demanded, temper rising. 'Four years, Malfoy? If your bloody father hadn't met his end, we'd have probably never gotten it!'

'No, you probably wouldn't have,' Draco said mildly, but his eyes were narrowed. 'I told you before; this house, the property in its entirety, answers to one owner. Until a week and a half ago, it all still belonged to my father, and I couldn't have given it to you if I'd wanted to.'

'Draco,' Hermione intervened before Harry could go off again, 'how did you know what it was?'

Draco didn't bother correcting her this time; he looked slightly uncomfortable. 'I remember my father... describing the diary in detail,' he admitted. 'How it felt, to hold it, to be close to it for too long... he feared it so much he never dared open it, much less use it. Too much Dark magic made it heavy, he used to say, and anything like that wasn't worth meddling with.'

'Oh, so obviously the best thing to do with such a thing was give it to my little sister,' Ron said nastily.

'I had nothing to do with that,' Draco said sharply. 'I was twelve at the time, if you remember.'

'Your father described it as heavy with Dark magic,' Hermione interjected again. 'That's it?'

'Well, yes,' Draco said, shrugging. 'I didn't think much of it until several years later, the night Dumbledore was killed. I overheard Snape talking with my father, asking him if he'd come across "anything similar" since... and I remembered that the night Kreacher bestowed the locket upon my mother, I had noticed it.'

'Noticed what?' Harry said.

Draco smirked. 'Pick it up.'

Once again, Harry did; and then he dropped the locket as if it had burned him. It literally felt like a burn; white spots appeared behind his eyes as he flexed his injured fingers; after a moment, he tried again, using the small, dark piece of buffing cloth that had been in the box to protect his hands.

This time, the locket did not burn him—but he instantly noticed how heavy it seemed for such a small locket, solid gold or not, and the longer he concentrated on it, the more convinced he became that he could feel the magical equivalent of a pulse. It was leaking so much Dark Magic, he could practically smell it.

Making sure to keep his hand covered, Harry turned the locket over; on the back, over the scales of the snake, an ornate letter 'S' had been carved into the metal.

'It doesn't make any sense,' he said finally, looking up. 'The diary wasn't overly heavy.'

'But the diary was a book,' Hermione pointed out. 'You would expect that to be heavy anyway...'

Draco inclined his head as if to agree with her point. 'I confronted Snape with my suspicions and demanded to know what all of it meant. At the time, he refused to tell me anything, so I didn't disclose any information about the locket...'

Draco paused, looking a bit hesitant. 'It wasn't until Snape knew that the Dark Lord had learned of my father's whereabouts that he finally enlightened me on the subject of Horcruxes. He was convinced it was the only way Potter here would be willing to help me at all,' he finished, looking smug. 'Surprise, surprise, he was right about you after all.'

'Hang on,' Ron said, 'you told us you hadn't been in contact with Snape!'

'I haven't,' Draco said, looking amused. 'Not directly.'

Harry sat up. 'What the hell do you mean, not _directly?_'

'You simply asked if I'd been in contact with Snape,' Draco said, shrugging again. 'I _assumed_ you meant _direct_ contact. My mother has been serving as a middleman in our communications over the past several years.'

'You little rat!'

'Ronald!'

'No, Ron's right,' Harry said viciously. 'He _is_ a little rat, but I guess we shouldn't have expected anything less.'

'Or perhaps he's just much smarter than any of you,' Draco offered. 'And don't bother questioning my mother about his whereabouts; the terms of her amnesty included immunity from all of our affairs. You wanted information, I informed you; you wanted to use my status for an undercover operation, I cooperated. You wanted the Horcrux, I've given it to you. I've kept my end of the deal.'

'You've thought this all through very well, haven't you?' Harry said scathingly.

'Not well enough,' Hermione said suddenly. The three of them looked at her; Draco narrowed his eyes. 'Oh, don't look so surprised,_Mr Malfoy_,' she said, smirking. 'The contract does not specify a set of tasks to be completed before you're free of the dragon's den.'

'What are you implying?' Draco asked, looking mutinous. 'I've nothing more to offer you.'

'Oh, see, that's where I think you're mistaken,' Hermione said simply, sitting up in her chair. 'You're a _Malfoy_, after all. Voldemort—' Draco winced and hissed, '—was so lenient with your father for a very good reason. He was terribly useful.'

'I am not my—' Draco began.

'But you have his resources at your disposal,' Hermione pointed out. 'As well as what I assume is a—' she paused, searching for words, '—or at least, what I imagine is a vast knowledge of Dark magic that could prove extremely useful to us while we continue the search.'

'The search?'

'For the other Horcruxes,' Harry supplied. 'And Hermione's got a fair point.'

'Hold on,' Draco said, holding up a hand. 'You can't be suggesting that I continue helping you with this nonsense.'

'Who's suggesting?' Ron said, grinning nastily. 'We're _telling_ you.'

Draco glared coldly at him. 'Why? You don't need me for anything more.'

'We don't _need_ you,' Harry confirmed, smirking as Draco's hands tightened on the arms of the chair he was lounging in. 'But we _can_ use you.'

: : :


	10. Chapter Nine: Panacea Draconis

Chapter 9  
**Panacea Draconis**

_The world often continues to allow evil  
because it isn't angry enough._  
—Bede Jarrett

: : : : :

Draco normally liked the cold. He always liked rain and snow and thunderstorms. He would spend the entire day sitting on the soft, dry hay on the floor of the Manor's stables, curled against the warming side of his favourite horse, listening to the downpour, the growling in the clouds overhead.

Right now, shivering against the raging wind blowing in off the ocean, Draco hated the cold. It was the wrong kind of cold. Nothing here was warm or soft or comforting; the cold here was the kind that seeped through his skin right down to the bone, despite the expensive fur cloak he was wearing, penetrating the Warming Charm his mother had cast on it. A blood-freezing, mind-numbing, deathly sort of cold.

He was in a cold, dank, inhumane abyss and he was absolutely furious.

'What do you mean, we_ can't see him_?' Draco demanded loudly.

'Draco,' his mother whispered, warningly.

She was slightly behind him, on his left, and Draco, halfway through his sixteenth year, matched her in height. She had her hand on his shoulder; to anyone else, it would have looked as if she were comforting him. Draco knew better; her hand was on the shoulder of his wand arm, her nails digging through the thick wool into the joint, preventing any sudden movements.

He ignored her warning. 'What do you mean,' he said again, addressing the withered old wizard before him, 'I _can't _see him?'

The guard seemed immune to the venom in Draco's words. He'd heard worse, probably. 'What that means, young Mr Malfoy, is that, unfortunately, you may not visit at the present time.'

'He's my father,' Draco said, hoping these words would get through to the man. 'It's Christmas, and he's my _father_. I want to see him.'

The man pressed his lips together, forming two thin, colourless lines in his face. He looked as if he might be scrunching his nose against the biting wind.

'I'm sorry, young Mr Malfoy, but that is not possible at this time.'

Maybe this man was thick, and Draco needed to speak more slowly, and repeat words more often. Perhaps that would work, and then the man would understand that this was his father—a convict, perhaps, a Death Eater, even a murderer, but none of this was relevant to Draco's point, which was, quite simply, that this man was also _his_ _father_.

Draco tried again. 'It's _Christmas_,' he insisted.

'I'm sorry,' the man offered once more. 'Lucius Malfoy is a Class A detainee, and is not permitted visitors at this time. Even,' he added, with some force, before Draco could interrupt, 'direct family members. For the safety of all, I'm afraid.'

This man did not seem as sincerely sorry as he was claiming to be. His mouth had a peculiar twist, almost a smirk but not quite, and he was peering down at Draco and his mother over his crooked nose as if they were the lowest scum on this Godforsaken rock they called an island.

Draco was not scum, nor did he like being looked at as though he were. It infuriated him to be looked at like this. Potter had looked at him like that every day for the past six years of his life. And speaking of which, _Potter _was the reason his father was here. Why couldn't Potter just have died, died like a normal boy would have died, so that Draco's father was at home with him, where they could pretend everything was all right with the world, not locked away on a cold, lonely island in a cell, a situation which screamed, explicitly, that everything was not all right with the world, and that Draco was stuck at the centre of it.

Draco had already decided that he was going to kill him. Draco was going to go back to Hogwarts in a week, and kill Harry Potter, just like he was going to kill Dumbledore. Then, maybe, the Dark Lord would forgive his father. And then, Draco would be arrested and maybe then, after his trial and sentencing and being shipped onto this dank, cold, sea-torn rock—maybe, then, Draco could finally see his father.

Because he hadn't seen his father since last Christmas, before the Incident. During the summer, his father had been on trial, and Draco had sometimes seen him in court, though only from a distance—there had been no bail and Lucius had been permitted no time with his family during his trial; none of the Death Eaters had. And then the Wizengamot had sentenced them to Azkaban, and Draco had caught one small glimpse of his father being led away with the others, and that had been that.

Surely, this man could understand Draco's frustration. Draco had never gone without seeing his father for so long. A dedicated businessman, Lucius had spent a lot of time working, sure enough, but he had always made time for Draco and Narcissa. Whether it be duelling lessons or dinners together or reading in the library or even awkward, unnecessary talks warning of the repercussions of siring illegitimate children, his father had always _been there_.

Draco dropped his eyes from the man's face, defeated. He stared at the grey stone floor, and said something he had never said to anyone before.

'Please.' He said it very quietly, but then was afraid the man hadn't heard him, so he tried again, louder. '_Please_. He's my father, sir. It's _Christmas_. I won't be long—I just want—I _need _to see him.'

Inwardly, Draco was wincing—he felt small, as if he were eleven all over again, pleading for a new broom—only this time, the pleading was so, so, _so _much more real, and he would have given up his right to any and all things bequeathed to him for just five minutes with his father.

The man tilted his gaze down at Draco from his seat behind the high desk, putting his crooked nose at a more severe angle. Draco looked up at him, hoping that maybe, just maybe, that half-hidden smirk was gone and that maybe, this man wasn't glaring at him as if he were the spawn of the Devil.

The man wasn't. Draco was not the spawn of the Devil or even deserving of a smirk. The man was looking at Draco like he was scum, hardly worth scraping off his boot.

'No visitors,' the man said in a voice that was entirely too pleased with itself, 'until further notice.' Now, he did smirk, almost proudly, and indicated the exit Portkey. 'Have a Happy Christmas, Mr Malfoy.'

Draco took the Portkey in a hard grip, wondering whether he could crush the brass pot, if he poured enough of his anger and frustration into it. He was so intent on murdering the scuttle that he didn't notice his destination at first—he'd assumed they were returning to the Manor, and only upon looking up at his mother's discreet cough did he realise that was not in fact the case.

'What are we doing here?' he demanded.

Narcissa pursed her lips, hesitating, but before she could decide to answer, the dark gates of the mansion swung open, silently admitting them. A small, scraggly-looking house-elf was limping down the drive.

'Young Master Malfoy,' it wheezed, bowing down low until its nose dug into the dirt. 'Mrs Malfoy. Master wishes Yully to take you inside.'

They followed the skinny elf up to the house, which was roughly a fifth of Malfoy Manor's size but about five times as foreboding. Dark, twisted shapes inhabited the shadows of the garden, crawling up the sides of the front veranda, which featured thickly curtained windows that blocked any light that may have been on inside. Three storeys and an attic tall, it towered over them as they climbed the stairs to the front door, which Yully opened with a feeble wave of his hand.

The inside was just as depressing as the outside. Everything was darkly coloured—deep maroons, dark-stained hardwoods and black finishes adorned the entry hall, and even the chandelier was painted black to match the portrait frames and candle holders stuck to the walls. Ugly, lank faces sneered at them from the portraits as they passed by on the way to the lounge, too fair and beautiful to be truly welcome in this house.

The lounge wasn't much different from the hall. A heavily ornamented, deep red rug covered the majority of the floor. The sofa, settee and chairs were lined in thick black velvet, and many were already occupied. In the centre, sat in a thickly-cushioned Queen Anne, was an ancient-looking man, with grey, translucent skin that hung off his bones. He was wrapped in a rich, dark cloak and folded his spider-like fingers together as Draco came to a halt before him.

'Well?' he rasped. 'Did they allow you to see Lucius?'

Draco, raised not to speak when adults were speaking, waited for his mother to answer. It took him several moments to realise that the man's eyes and question were directed at him. 'No,' Draco said.

The old man closed his eyes and Draco looked over at his mother, whose gaze alone told him to keep his mouth shut unless absolutely necessary. When the old man opened his eyes again, Draco was staring at him impassively.

'They are, unfortunately, not as foolish as I would have liked to believe. But it is of no matter,' the old man continued. 'Come and stand before me, young Malfoy.'

Draco did not hesitate to do as he was told. This close, he could see the man's heavily scarred skin peeking out from underneath the dark robes as he withdrew his wand, the Dark Mark a rippled, an ebony blemish against his white skin. His thin white hair clung to his skull as he stood, bringing his forehead level with Draco's nose.

He looked beyond Draco's shoulder, over towards his mother. 'Leave us, witch,' he ordered. Rapid, fading footsteps confirmed that Narcissa was leaving the room. 'Your task,' the old man rasped quietly to Draco. 'Is it complete?'

Draco felt himself tense. 'Nearly.'

'Good, good,' the old man said, then turned to face the others in the room. Most of them, Draco recognised: all of his fellow Slytherin sixth-year boys—Vincent, Greg, Blaise and Theodore—as well as several of the girls—Daphne, Millicent, and a fourth-year girl Draco was pretty sure was Daphne's little sister, Asteria. There were also some seventh-years, and not all of them Slytherins, though Draco recognised very few of them, except as non-Gryffindors. There were two men standing at the back of the room who, Draco was sure, weren't students at all, and with a sinking feeling he suddenly realised why he was there.

'The Dark Lord,' the old man began, 'sees promise in all of you, and we have brought you here tonight to test your... _dedication _to his cause.'

At the word 'we', several hooded figures emerged from the shadows. Dark green, ghoulish masks concealed their identities, but Draco was sure he would know most of them by their first names. There were four of them, one at each corner of the room. One was holding his wand under the chin of a robust witch with black hair and pale skin whom Draco did not recognise. The eyes of his fellow students and the two strange men in the back darted from one cloaked figure to the next as the old man began speaking again.

'Serving the Dark Lord is an honour,' he continued, 'as well as a privilege. He only accepts those of the utmost loyalty, determination, and ability. He rewards those that serve him well, but will punish those that are deemed _unworthy_.'

The old man dragged this last word out, casting a long, accusing dark look across the room. Several people stirred.

'Bring her here,' the old man ordered.

The witch was shoved roughly forward. She stumbled, but regained her balance; when she did not fall, the Death Eater that had held her kicked her from behind. She hit the floor between Draco and the old man silently, jaw set, eyes dark and determined. 'Is this your idea of intimidation, Leofric?' she hissed at the old man, casting Draco a disdainful look. 'Using _children_?'

'You'd be surprised, my dear Hestia, to learn what children can be capable of,' the old man, Leofric, answered with a note of satisfaction. 'And learn you shall. Theodore?' A nasty smile wormed its way through the wrinkles of Leofric's face as he called the boy forward. 'Good lad,' he said. 'Why don't you demonstrate for the room and our guest just how potent the magic of a mere boy can be.'

Theodore did not smirk, or even blink. He removed his wand without hesitation and pointed it at the ragged form of the woman on the floor. What his motions lacked in feeling, however, his voice made up for; with more pleasure than Draco had ever heard on the tongue of another human being, Theodore hissed, '_Crucio_.'

To her credit, the woman did not scream, but her body gave a sudden, violent jerk and twisted in on itself under such an onslaught of unseen agony. Theodore did not relent; if anything, her obvious pain encouraged him. He bared his teeth and drove the magic harder, deeper, and the woman bit down on her lip and swallowed a strangled noise.

'Enough,' Leofric snapped, and Theodore raised his wand.

The woman's convulsions died immediately, but much of her resilience had already been stripped away. She was shaking at his feet, body twitching beneath her robes, and Draco tried very hard not to look at her. This was a mistake, because now Draco found himself meeting Theodore's gaze, the thrill and exhilaration at his accomplishment written all over his face—and worse, his eagerness to continue.

'You must all learn to do this—as well,' Leofric added with a severe look at the young Nott, 'as when to contain it. Miss Jones has a large obligation to fulfil, and we cannot afford to have her permanently damaged before her time has come. Go,' he said to Theodore, who backed away. Then, to Draco's horror, the man turned to him. 'Mr Malfoy. Your family has always been _particularly _talented in this department. The Dark Lord is eager to see whether you have inherited the gift.'

Two of the masked Death Eaters stepped forward; one grabbed the witch by the shoulder and hauled her to her feet, while the other tore off and discarded her cloak and her heavy outer robes. Gripping her by the elbows and holding her arms behind her back, they held her steady before him, and Draco did not need to ask what they expected of him. He'd been trained to do this, he realised, without having even been aware of it. They had removed her heavy robes so he could easily distinguish her figure, could tell where all the important _soft _points were, the same points his father abused—and had taught him to instinctively abuse—when duelling. Only now...

'When you're ready, Mr Malfoy,' Leofric said, and stood aside.

Of course, it wasn't as simple as jabbing his wand at her, throwing a few Stinging Hexes. Those would hurt, surely, but they wouldn't be anything close to the Cruciatus. This had to be _torture_, and Draco had no idea how he was supposed to torture another human being. The desire to cause pain for pain's sake alone, he just didn't understand it. The screams alone—they could belong to his mother, for all he knew, and—

And then Draco realised that they probably _would _belong to his mother, if he didn't do this right.

He quickly analysed the body before him—still, he purposely did not look at her face, because he could not look the woman in the eye and consciously condemn her to this. He kept his eyes below her neckline and zoned in on the areas he should focus on—_underarms, backs of the knees, lower abdomen, insides of the thighs, ribcage... _He drew his wand over each in turn, in a sort of invisible trace, as he concentrated. Then, just as the Death Eater holding her began to shift impatiently, he struck.

The woman's scream, so close, cut right through every inch of him, and Draco wanted nothing more than to flee from the room. With every pulse of magic that emanated from his wand, she cried out again and again, until Draco was sure the world around him would shatter from the noise. Her body became rigid, jerking erratically in the Death Eater's grip as he laughed, taunting her and her pain. Draco felt a tremor of revulsion pass through him, and it was only the need to keep his own mother from ever being subjected to this that kept his wand steady.

'Not bad, Mr Malfoy,' Leofric said in frank appraisal, and Draco raised his wand quickly as the Death Eater dropped the woman on the floor. 'Not bad at all. The Dark Lord will be pleased. You two are excused, for now,' he said, dismissing Draco and Theodore. 'You obviously need no further instruction for this. Mr Zabini, Miss Greengrass—'

Draco did not pay much attention beyond that; with permission to leave, he fled at once, throwing himself up two flights of stairs and into the first bathroom he came across. He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach won the race against his lungs out of his mouth, and he doubled over the edge and was sloppily sick into it.

Draco leaned his forehead against the cool tile of the wall beside the toilet and let his breath steady itself, trying to swallow the acid still clinging to his throat. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, he stumbled to his feet and quickly washed his face with shaking hands, knowing that if he disappeared for too long, his absence would be noticed—he had to get back downstairs before they finished testing the others. He could hear the muffled screams from below, and scrubbed at his face faster, a sudden urgent desire to locate his mother and stick to her settling deep in his stomach.

He dried his face quickly with a towel and exited the bathroom. A dark figure was leaning against the wall opposite him, arms folded and head tipped downwards, hiding most of the face in shadow. Draco froze, one hand still on the doorknob.

There was a pause in the screaming from downstairs, and it was then that Theodore finally decided to speak. 'Weak stomach, Malfoy?' he asked, smirking. 'Or did you catch cold on the way back?'

Draco did not give him the satisfaction of so much as a glance. Closing the door quietly behind him, he said, 'Azkaban is hell this time of year.'

'Good to know.' Theodore looked him over once, straightening up and bringing his eyes into the dim light of the hall. 'Wouldn't want to give them the impression that you didn't have what it _takes_.'

Draco paused, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. 'Funny,' he said finally, somehow, unbelievably, keeping his voice steady. He looked Theodore straight in the eye. 'I didn't hear her screaming for _you_.'

: : : : :

_Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac._  
- Henry Kissinger

: : :

The air was hot and stuffy, a situation only worsened by the blazing fire in the hearth, the only source of light in the room. Nagini hissed quietly, curling into a tight coil before the flames. The sheets from the bed lay in a crumpled heap beneath her as she watched her master with cold, impassive eyes. The light from the fire played across her green and ebony scales in a fuzzy, broken trail of orange. He was like her, in that way—internally frigid, he was drawn to the warmth, unable to produce enough of it on his own.

Voldemort remained on his back, arms folded under his head, staring listlessly at the ceiling. Shifting through the expanse of information he had coaxed out of Marius the other night, he wondered why he had overlooked this infuriatingly simplistic solution to his problem before.

Bellatrix rolled onto her side to face him, her body still bare and exposed. Her skin was pale against her dark hair, which reflected the light from the fire like Nagini's scales. It was perhaps the only appealing thing about her. She watched him quietly for a while. After a considerable pause, she carefully prompted, 'My Lord?'

Voldemort didn't waste the energy required to look at her. With his eyes still fixed on the ceiling, his reply was curt.

'Get out.'

Without so much as a moment's hesitation, Bellatrix quietly got to her feet and gathered her robes from the floor. Voldemort waited until she had finished dressing and closed the door behind her before turning his attention to the squat man he knew was hiding in a darkened corner of the room.

'Wormtail.'

'Y-yes, my Lord?' Voldemort heard a small scuffle—the sound of Wormtail getting hastily to his feet—accompany the stutter. The man scuttled forward, retrieving a fresh set of robes from the wardrobe and bringing them to the bedside, offering them to his master.

Voldemort took the clothes with an air of languor, dressing methodically. Wormtail stood to attention at the bedside, looking positively terrified for no particular reason while he waited for further instruction.

'We have to work quickly,' Voldemort decided, his visual attention absorbed by the dance of flames in the fireplace. He finished the latch of his cloak with an impatient wave of his wand. 'Marius' disappearance will not go overlooked. We must make haste or the information will be worthless.'

Wormtail shuddered, well learned from experience in what happened to anything worthless in the court of his master. 'Y-yes, of c-course, my Lord.'

'I will require Abacus Croaker,' Voldemort continued. 'See that he is brought to me. His... _expertise—_' he hissed the word, and Nagini stirred, '—will be required.'

'M-my Lord?' Wormtail asked, clearly confused.

Voldemort felt the last fraction of his patience leak away, and he glared at the man trembling before him.

'Get out.'

Wormtail did not need to be told twice.

: : :

Predictably, Draco did not react very well to what he kept calling their 'dishonourable intentions' regarding his role in 'their war'. Over the next day and a half he became increasingly more unbearable, muttering under his breath that _he _was supposed to be the Slytherin and something about deceitful Gryffindors, to such a degree that even Hermione lost her patience and had to frequently switch shifts with Harry and other Order members in order to keep from wringing his scrawny little neck.

Harry had wanted to take the Horcrux at once—but then Hermione had pointed out that they really had nowhere safe to hide it. Gringotts had been broken into before, Snape still had access to the old Headquarters, and none of them were willing to put the students at Hogwarts in any more danger than they could help. Grudgingly, Harry had left the locket at the Manor, hidden away where presumably only Nivens and Draco knew how to retrieve it. It had been safe there for the past four years, he'd agreed, and would continue to be safe there for now. At least, he'd said, until he found a way to destroy it.

She had had a long bath the previous night and came to the Manor on the third morning with something of a resigned air, wishing Harry or Ron could be there to take the brunt of Draco's filthy looks and muttered insults. Sure enough, she'd barely passed over the threshold before one of the dragon-head busts in the entryway began hissing at her menacingly.

'Good morning to you, too,' she said curtly. The bust snapped at her as she passed by, and a small search located Elphias Doge stationed outside Draco's bedroom, sitting on an oversized, comfortable-looking armchair that he had conjured.

'Oh, good morning,' he said, adjusting his reading glasses and folding up the _Daily Prophet_ in his hands. 'Time already?'

'You can go early,' Hermione assured him. 'We have some business. Thank you, Elphias.'

'No trouble, no trouble,' Elphias assured her, standing and dismissing the chair with a quick flick of his wand. 'He's in there, hasn't come out since tea-time yesterday.'

Hermione was not alarmed by this information; Draco locking himself in his room did not seem to be an unusual habit. Hermione was beginning to think he'd spent far too much time in that small space over the past few years.

She knocked on the door. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. Deciding right then that she had no patience for Draco's nonsense today, she unlocked the door with a whispered Alohomora and quietly edged her way inside.

Draco was not in his bedroom; the bathroom door at the back stood ajar, the bed was perfectly made and looked as if it hadn't been slept in at all. Hermione picked her way through the maze of books scattered on the floor to the far side of the room, which had two large double-doors that led onto a small balcony overlooking the paddocks behind the Manor.

He was sitting on one of the patio chairs on the balcony, feet propped up on an ottoman, with his eyes closed and a look of great concentration on his face. Blaise's sword, which he'd taken back with them after leaving the Palazzo, was held straight in his hands; before she could say anything, or decide to disarm him, she saw his lips move: a silver mist floated out of the end of the blade, formed the feeble shape of a thin, four-legged animal, and promptly dissipated. Draco's eyes opened and he watched the mist disappear. His jaw tightened and he sat back, turning his gaze to the grounds beyond.

Hermione wasn't sure what to make of it. Stepping forward into the small open space between the doors, she said, 'Has it always been that unclear?'

Surprisingly, Draco did not startle or wheel around; she saw him stiffen and clench his teeth, but his eyes stayed fixed on the paddocks. 'I don't know what you Muggle types are used to, but for those of us raised among wizards, it's generally considered polite to knock.'

'I don't recall Harry giving you permission to hold a wand.'

'And I don't recall promising further services to you people, much less offering my mother as a tool you can manipulate at your leisure,' he spat back, looking up at her with what seemed to be as much disdain as he could muster.

Hermione sighed. 'I don't understand why you continue to be so difficult about this.'

'I'm sorry, Granger, what part of that contract said I had to be good company?'

'We finished analysing the documents we recovered from Yaxley's vault—'

'How astonishingly prudent of you.'

'—and found some very dodgy information—'

'Shall I go inform someone who cares?' Draco inquired mildly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 'Are you familiar with the IWWS?' she asked.

'I—the what?'

'The International Wizards for Wildlife Society,' Hermione explained.

'Never heard of them,' Draco said, shrugging.

'Well, that's interesting,' Hermione said, raising her eyebrows further, 'considering you own about half the group's shares.'

: : :

'The who-what-now?' Ron asked.

When Hermione had sent Harry and Ron an owl at work saying she had an urgent matter that required their attention, they had both made excuses and fled the office as soon as they could. Ron had insisted that it was probably Draco's doing, but Harry was pretty sure Hermione could handle Malfoy well enough on her own that she wouldn't require their immediate help unless it was something extremely serious. He had expected to be met with jinxes and hexes from Dark wizards, or at least an estate engulfed in Fiendfyre—he had not expected to enter the Manor to find Draco sitting in a study with his arms folded and looking stubbornly out the window, Hermione on one of the sofas with enough parchment on the table in front of her to suffocate in.

Hermione gave Ron a look of such fierce disapproval that Harry himself winced. She'd only repeated herself about four times so far, but ever since she'd been forced to start spending so much time around Draco, her patience had been deteriorating rapidly.

'They're a privately funded, invitation-only society concerned with "the affairs and preservation of endangered magical species",' she repeated.

'And this is weird... why?' Ron asked.

Hermione gave him another one of those looks. 'Did you even _listen _to what I just said?'

'Something about endangered magical animals—'

'Oh, honestly, you're supposed to be a detective!' Hermione snapped, rolling her eyes. 'Think about what I said _carefully_! Privately funded is nothing unusual, but "invitation-only"? In a _wildlife _group?'

'Well, so what?' Harry asked. 'We can't get a warrant just because someone's decided they want to fund a private club, _any _kind of club, unless we have some solid reason to believe they're up to something.'

'You didn't let me finish,' Hermione said. 'We recovered these documents from Yaxley's vault, which is a solid enough reason anyway, if you ask me. But when I investigated the society's origins, I found some very interesting details.'

She dumped a large number of scrolls on the desk and began sifting through them. Ron looked at Harry and rolled his eyes; it was so very like Hermione, to look into even the tiniest detail so thoroughly.

'What is _weird _about it,' Hermione went on, glaring momentarily at Ron, 'isn't just the society's description or the vault we found the papers in, but the founders themselves, and the current shareholders.'

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Hermione turned her eyes back to the mass of parchment.

'Here,' she said, thrusting a document at Harry. 'A list of all the founding members and contributors. Any of those names look familiar?'

Harry glanced down at the list, and he immediately realised why this information in particular had raised the red flag.

'Avery,' Harry said. 'Son of a bitch.'

Ron leaned over Harry's shoulder, peering at the parchment he held. 'Hang on,' he said, 'this was founded in 1947, Hermione.'

'So?'

'So, Avery's Snape's age,' Ron said. 'They weren't even born then.'

Hermione looked briefly pleased that they seemed to be taking her evidence seriously now. 'Roger Avery wasn't,' she agreed. 'But his father was.'

Harry looked up. 'Avery senior?'

'Mmm,' she said, sitting back. 'Leofric Avery was born in 1928. He attended Hogwarts the same years as—'

'—Tom Riddle,' Harry finished for her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Draco looking elsewhere but obviously listening intently. 'They were both in Slytherin. Yeah, I know.'

'What's this got to do with Yaxley, though?' Ron asked. 'I thought Yaxley didn't go to Hogwarts.'

'No, he didn't; he went to Durmstrang,' Hermione agreed. 'But Tom Riddle had lots of contacts there as well—you know he favoured the Dark Arts... Yaxley was only a few years behind Riddle and Avery.'

'And it wasn't just Avery,' she went on smartly. 'Nott, Rosier, even Malfoy's grandfather—they were all major contributors to the society's founding.'

'I still don't understand what we're supposed to get out of this,' Ron interrupted, sounding exasperated. 'So they went to school together; they're Death Eater chums, why is this news?'

'Oh, honestly, Ronald, look at the facts! Don't you think it's even a _little _bit odd that exactly six months after Hepzibah Smith's death a few Death Eaters founded an incredibly unlikely organisation that's invitation-only and privately funded?'

'That sounds like a coincidence, is what it sounds like,' Ron said, frowning. 'Why the hell would this have anything to do with her death?'

Hermione looked as though she might strangle him.

'After Hepzibah's death, Tom Riddle went back and stole Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup, and neither had been seen since—until we found the locket. We know where that is now, but no one's seen the cup since Hepzibah's last Christmas party back in 1944!'

'How would founding a wildlife club have anything to do with the cup?' Harry cut in, earning a grateful look from Ron. 'That doesn't make any sense.'

'Precisely!'

Harry and Ron both stared at her; Harry had his eyebrows raised, and he could see Draco shaking his head and trying very hard not to laugh.

Hermione shot a filthy look at Draco before rounding on Harry and Ron once again. 'Don't you _get it?_' she demanded indignantly. 'Since when do Death Eaters care about the preservation of magical animals? Indeed, why would Yaxley spend millions of Galleons securing a privately-operated and maintained ecological preserve in the middle of nowhere?'

'That's sort of what we're trying to ask you,' Ron said, deadpan. 'I mean really, Hermione, you've gone a bit out of the loop again—'

'In 1947, Yaxley and Avery leased a section of Muggle National Park in northern Ethiopia,' she continued, ignoring Ron. 'They turned it into a wizarding wildlife reserve for some of Africa's most endangered magical creatures, ostensibly to protect them from Muggle poachers.'

'Okay, so maybe this Yaxley bloke is an animal lover?' Ron suggested. Draco snorted.

'Yaxley owns nothing else even remotely similar,' Hermione said with authority. 'He holds the deeds to half the casinos and racetracks in Britain, and even owns a few hotels that the Ministry is inclined to believe are Polyjuice brothels. Don't you think it a bit odd that he spent a fortune on a wildlife preservation?'

'Uh,' said Ron. 'I guess?'

'Hermione,' Harry interrupted before she could leap at him. 'I can see why it sounds dodgy, but I still don't understand what this all has to do with Hepzibah Smith—'

'_Think _about it, Harry,' Hermione said. 'What's the first thing Voldemort would have done after getting the cup and turning it into a Horcrux?'

Harry stared at her. _Could it really be that simple?_

'Look for a place to hide it,' Harry said.

: : :

'You still haven't explained,' Draco complained loudly, 'why_ I_ need to go on this suicidal excursion.'

'Hush,' Hermione said briskly, ignoring him. 'Oh, I dunno, Harry... Africa's dangerous territory, even for Muggles...'

'So's England at the moment,' Harry pointed out.

'Yes, well, but you don't quite—do you even _watch _the Muggle news any more?' she asked. 'You really have no idea what it's like—'

'Hermione, we're _wizards_,' Ron said, rolling his eyes. 'Have a little faith.'

'It's not that simple,' Hermione insisted. 'Africa's been having huge civil wars, Muggles exterminate _themselves _down there, there are massacres and battles for no reason whatsoever, most strangers are shot on sight, especially if they're—'

'You think Voldemort won't end up doing the same thing?' Harry demanded. 'Only he'll do it on a worldwide basis; there'll be no containing it. If there's a chance the cup is in Africa, then I'm going to Africa.'

Hermione pursed her lips. 'This is a _bad idea,_ Harry,' she tried feebly. 'I _do _think this warrants investigation, but I also think it should be done _properly_. With a certified search team and Auror squad—'

Draco cleared his throat. 'I really hate to admit it,' he began, 'but I agree with the Muggle-born.'

'Well, good thing it's not up to you, isn't it?' Ron said to him nastily. 'I'm with Harry; we've got to go _now_.'

'Nobody is making any of you come,' Harry pointed out.

'Then why the hell are you telling me I have to go?' Draco demanded.

'We're not,' Hermione interrupted before Ron could say anything. 'But we go where Harry goes, and if you really want the best protection we can offer, so do you.'

'So your idea of the best protection you can offer is dragging me into a war-torn country and wandering through a jungle infested with deadly magical animals.' Draco looked at them in disbelief. 'Am I the _only _one who sees how little sense that makes?'

'How are we going to get to Ethiopia, though?' Ron asked, ignoring Draco. 'Fly?'

'Too risky,' Hermione said. 'There's millions of Muggle and wizarding residences alike between here and there; the chance of being spotted would be enormous... we could try for a Portkey...'

'International Portkeys are closely monitored,' Harry answered. 'Especially now, with Marius missing and everything. So not unless you want the Minister all over what we're doing. Same goes for Floo.'

'There's got to be a way,' Ron said. 'Could we Apparate that far?'

'Too dangerous without a specific destination,' Hermione pointed out, 'and we'd need to get paperwork on that, too...'

Ron frowned and looked over at Harry, who shrugged.

Draco looked delighted. 'Well,' he said, smirking. 'Guess we can't go to Africa after all. Tea?'

'Wait,' Harry said, looking up, and Draco's expression became crestfallen. 'Why don't we just fly?'

Hermione gave Harry a look. 'We already went over that, Harry. It's too risky when you consider the number of people you'd pass over such a long distance—'

'No, I mean, I know that. I meant—' Harry paused, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. '_Fly_. You know. The Muggle way.'

This suggestion was met with a pair of blank looks from Ron and Draco and a blink from Hermione.

'Oh,' she said. 'Well. That's an idea.'

'Hang on,' said Draco. 'What do you mean, fly the _Muggle _way?'

'Er, you know,' Harry said. 'Aeroplanes?'

Ron raised his eyebrows. 'You mean those ruddy things Dad's always going on about?'

Draco just continued to stare at him. 'Granger,' he demanded finally, looking away from Harry. 'Translation?'

'Aeroplanes,' Hermione repeated, looking thoughtfully upwards. 'That _is _a good idea, Harry. They'd have no way to track us, Dark wizards know next to nothing about Muggle systems, and thanks to the Ministry's connections with the Muggle government, I could get us passports approved almost instantly through my department with next to no questions asked—'

'You've got to be joking,' Ron said, cutting her off and looking positively horrified.

'Oh, Ronald, it's perfectly safe.'

'Perfectly safe? I've seen Dad's books! They crash all the time!'

'Honestly, you'd be more likely to die falling out of bed—'

'Beg pardon,' Draco interrupted loudly, standing and looking annoyed. 'Since when can Muggles _fly_?'

'Er,' said Harry, suddenly feeling alarmed at the prospect of explaining Muggle technology to a wizard-raised pure-blood. He looked at Hermione. 'You want to handle this?'

Hermione made a face at him. Draco continued to glare and put his hands on his hips. Harry had to resist a strong urge to tease him about it.

'Um,' Hermione began eloquently, chewing on her lip. 'It's all a bit technical, but basically...'

She explained the basic idea of aeroplanes, and Harry almost had to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep from laughing at the look on Draco's face by the time she'd finished.

'So let me get this straight,' Draco said. 'Muggles don't fly on _brooms_, but inside gigantic metal things with wings that you claim weigh _hundreds of tonnes_, but somehow have the ability to cruise thousands of feet in the air—for hours on end?'

'Basically,' Hermione said again.

'With full accommodations?'

'They even have loos.'

Draco closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. Harry sort of felt sorry for him. He almost made himself stop grinning.

'You're either having me on,' Draco said finally, looking up, 'or you're completely barking.'

Ron looked torn between defending Hermione and agreeing with Draco. He made a half-hearted noise and kept his mouth shut. Harry was impressed.

'It's actually quite fascinating,' Hermione said conversationally. 'The simple principles of aerodynamics allow Muggle engineers to—'

'Granger, I do not care how many libraries you've memorised,' Draco interrupted shortly, 'there is no logic that will support the existence of hundred-tonne, non-magical objects that possess the ability to fly.'

: : :

'Simply _marvellous_,' Arthur said, examining the device with rapt curiosity. 'Oh, look, there it goes again!'

The electronic-ticket booth printed out the last of their boarding passes and Hermione tucked it into her shoulder-bag; Harry had let her handle the computers, as he'd never been allowed to touch Dudley's and was about as adept with them as Ron, who kept giving the booth suspicious looks, as though it were up to something sinister.

Draco had his nose in the air, scoffing at the technology, using solitary adjectives like 'crude' and 'substandard' every now and again. Even in a pair of worn jeans with a t-shirt and a suit jacket, he managed to make himself appear far superior to the Muggles milling around him in similar attire. It was the air he carried with him everywhere like a protective bubble, so that even stripped of his wand and his dignity, he turned heads and drew lingering gazes as if he were some sort of higher power, a mystical being among mortals. It wouldn't have been too bad except that he _knew it _and flaunted it to a truly disgusting degree.

Arthur patted the booth affectionately with one hand as they moved on, still murmuring 'Marvellous, just marvellous!' under his breath. In a counterpoint to Draco's sneering, he'd been similarly uttering things like _'Splendid!', 'Ingenious!', 'Fascinating!' _since they'd entered the airport twenty minutes ago; Harry kept catching Draco half-way to a crooked grin before he recovered himself every time Arthur discovered something new and wonderful to goggle at, while Ron just rolled his eyes and looked embarrassed.

'Dad,' he hissed, as Arthur stopped to inspect a beverage dispenser. _'Dad_, come _on—_'

Arthur was digging in his pockets and Harry could hear change jingling. 'Just a moment, Ron, I brought some Muggle money—'

'_Dad—_'

'Here,' Harry said, taking pity and sorting the coins for Arthur. 'Push them in there.'

Arthur pushed the coins into the slot Harry had indicated, pressed one of the many colourful selections and clapped his hands with glee as the bottle was deposited in the bin below. Ron rubbed his face with his palm and Draco turned away so they couldn't see him laughing.

'What are you lot _doing_,' Hermione demanded, several metres ahead and looking annoyed. 'We have to get moving, they won't hold the plane for us four, you know!'

This was obviously the wrong information to disclose; all of a sudden, Draco exclaimed, 'Weasley, look! A lolly vendor!', seized Arthur by the elbow and introduced him to a gumball machine.

'This is going to be a long trip,' Ron muttered under his breath.

Harry silently agreed and tried to pry Arthur away from the machine, even as a blue ball rolled down the cylindrical tube at the bottom and Arthur claimed that he'd requested the orange, and wanted his money back. The subsequent trip across the large building to security was uneventful, if you didn't count the seventeen times they had to pause while Arthur let out a cry of joy and assaulted a random Muggle or object with his over-zealousness.

That, and the pair of American girls asking Draco for his phone number.

'Sorry,' Draco said, blinking and trying to discretely turn his head in a way that allowed him to breathe air that didn't mingle with theirs. 'My what?'

'Your number, baby,' said the tall one; she had ebony skin and was wearing far too many cosmetics to be considered appealing. Her friend threw Harry a flirtatious little grin, and he coughed uneasily. Ron was grinning ear to ear, barely able to contain his amusement.

Draco looked torn between indignance and utter confusion. 'Er...' he began, unusually ineloquent. 'That's priviledged information?'

'Good save,' Harry muttered to Ron, who choked.

Pouting, the girl moved a bit closer, playing with a lock of her hair. 'Don't be like that,' she murmured, still advancing, friend in tow. 'I'd make it worth your while.'

Draco recoiled, moving backwards past Harry, keeping a safe distance between himself and the girls. 'Potter—' There was a slight edge of panic to his voice.

'Oh, _honestly_,' Hermione exclaimed, appearing out of thin air and elbowing past Ron, planting herself between Draco and the girls, hands on her hips. 'Can't you see he obviously wants nothing to do with you?'

'Excuse _you_,' the tall girl demanded. 'Who're you, his _girl—_'

'What's it to you if I am?' Hermione snapped. 'Piss off.'

Harry was finding it hard to tell who looked more surprised, the girl or Draco. The tall girl muttered, 'Whatever, come on' and stalked away, her friend throwing a vicious look over her shoulder and saying something about 'rude English'.

'I really don't know what his problem was,' Ron said in Harry's ear as Hermione herded them onwards. 'The short one wasn't too bad.'

'Oh, _really_?' said a perspicacious voice beside them, and Ron jumped. Hermione was slightly pink. 'Why don't you go back and get _her _number, then?'

She slipped past them and matched Draco's pace, and Harry could hear him demand, 'What the devil was _that _all about?'

Beside him, Ron sulked. 'How does she always _do _that?'

: : :

'I still reckon we should have brought our brooms,' Draco muttered darkly under his breath. Harry rolled his eyes.

The queue for the metal detectors was moving slowly, and Harry had resigned himself to making sure Draco didn't attempt to dart out of reach as he'd done three times already, each time forcing them to move to the back of the queue. Arthur, Ron, and Hermione had already gone through—Arthur having gained admittance with a quick Confundus Charm in leiu of passport and boarding pass—and were waiting on the other side, slouched against a bench and looking irritated and bored; except, of course, for Mr Weasley, who had taken to personally shaking hands with every Muggle that passed through security and interviewing the guards.

'Why can't we go around it?' Draco demanded.

'I already told you,' Harry hissed impatiently. 'They have to scan us.'

'_Scan _us? For _what_?'

'Anything dangerous.'

'Oh well, you're buggered then, aren't you. You're practically a walking calamity.'

'We'll see.' Harry gave him a solid shove on the shoulders, forcing him forward towards the empty frame that served as a metal detector.

Draco was too busy eyeing it as if it had teeth to complain about the excessive manhandling. 'I don't wanna,' he moaned. 'How do you know it's safe?'

'Trust me.'

'Trust you!' Draco whirled around, and a lady behind Harry walked into him as he came to an abrupt halt. 'In a matter of safety, no less! This coming from the tart who took pleasure strolls through the Forbidden Forest at midnight!'

He was shouting, and he seemed to notice this as both the line behind them and the one on the other side of the hall stopped to stare curiously at him. Some of the people looked alarmed. One of the guards began tapping his truncheon threateningly in the palm of his hand.

Harry cleared his throat. 'Malfoy,' he said, patiently, 'you're making a scene.'

'Oh, am I?' Draco drawled, issuing a small bow. 'Well, how's it feel, poster boy? Don't enjoy not being the centre of attention for once? Maybe we could—'

The rest of his sentence was cut off as Harry elbowed him through the frame, and a very high-pitched buzzer sounded. Draco jumped out from under the frame and probably would have dashed away if the guard on the other side hadn't suddenly blocked his way.

'Raise your arms and spread your legs, sir,' the Muggle demanded. He was brandishing a small metal-sensor shaped like a paddle in one hand and motioning to Draco with the other.

Draco stared at him as if he was mad. 'I _beg _your pardon?'

'Raise 'em and spread 'em,' the guard repeated firmly.

Harry would never forget the look of complete loathing Draco shot over his shoulder as the guard waved the sensor over his body, Draco wincing every time the Muggle nearly touched him. Passing just under his chin, the sensor emitted a loud beep and Draco flinched away from it.

'What's it doing?' he demanded.

'Sir, are you wearing any metal or jewellery—'

'Why?'

'Sir, I need you to unbutton your shirt collar—'

'POTTER!'

Stepping through the scanner, Harry closed his eyes and prayed for patience.

Draco's mood did not improve on the long trek to their designated gate. He kept shuddering and shying away when busy Muggles rushed by and got too close, intermittently shooting vicious looks at Harry as if it were his fault alone that Draco had ended up in this predicament. It being the middle of summer, the airport was extremely crowded and they were unable to find any area private enough for them to talk freely. They took empty seats at the far end of the seating area for their gate, Arthur standing at the large window and staring fixedly at the runway, watching the planes take off.

'Merlin bless them,' he said, watching a rather large plane take to the sky. 'I wish I could go with you.'

Arthur had only accompanied them to the airport as an Order guard; as much as Harry wanted to take him along, they needed Arthur and Kingsley both at the Ministry to keep the Order informed.

'You can have my ticket,' Draco volunteered, and Hermione gave him a look. 'What?'

'No, no, you four need to go, I know,' Arthur said, not paying any attention. 'It's just... someday, perhaps. Someday.'

His expression was so full of longing it was painful to look at. The Muggle at the gate began calling rows, and Hermione sat up, shouldering her bag—their only luggage for the trip. Harry had been a little wary when she'd taken his Invisibility Cloak, insisting that she could 'carry everything they needed'.

'That's us,' Hermione announced, retrieving their boarding passes from within her bag. Draco leaned over to peek inside and she stood up quickly, snapping it shut. She held up a ticket. 'We've got an aisle between us, but we're all in the same row. Who wants the window?'

'I will take the window, thank you,' Draco said, standing and snatching the paper from her grasp. Hermione shrugged and passed out the others, ushering them towards the line by the gate. 'Hah,' Draco exclaimed in victory as Harry came up beside him. 'Now if the bloody thing malfunctions, _I've_ got myself a way out, and you can all burn.'

'The windows don't open,' Harry informed him. 'And anyway, we'll be about thirty thousand feet above the ground, so it wouldn't do you much good if they did.'

Draco paled. 'Then what the hell do they have windows _for_?'

'To give you false hope?' Harry suggested, stepping ahead of him and handing the Muggle his ticket. She glanced at it briefly, scanned it, returned the stub and waved him inside. 'Or maybe so you can watch the ground rushing up to meet you.'

'I hate you, Potter,' came the low hiss from behind as Draco followed his lead down the boarding chute. 'I really, really, really _hate you_.'

'Quit it, Malfoy, you're making me blush.'

'See,' Draco went on, as they waited in the queue of Muggles slowly taking their seats, 'I used to think you did this just because you liked the attention. I should have known better. You _enjoy _that constant feeling of Impending Doom. You're like a drug addict, only more suicidal.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'You might not want to talk about self-destruction here. The Muggles might arrest you.'

'And I'd get an excuse to sit this out? Why is this bad?'

'Tickets, please!' said the flight attendant, killing the conversation and taking their stubs. 'Aisle to the right, just behind the wing. Tickets, please!'

'You do realise this is a claustrophobic nightmare?' Draco demanded when they reached their seats, overlooking them with great distaste.

The chairs were narrow and hard, complete with non-existent legroom and plastic armrests that looked decidedly uncomfortable. Harry sighed. 'It's only for a few hours, you'll live without your fancy furniture.'

'I happen to _love _my Italian furniture,' Draco said grimly, sitting down slowly, as if he expected the seatbelt to leap up and tie him down. 'I feel like I'm serving detention with McGonagall.'

The hard, straight-backed chairs McGonagall frequently used in classes and detentions were a painful memory for Harry. 'At least these have cushions.'

'Cushions aren't meant to be _stiff_, Potter.' Draco ran a critical eye over every surface within arm's reach and began poking random areas, wincing the entire time as if the plane might decide to bite back. After discovering the wonder that was the switch for the light above his seat, he moved on to the seat back in front of him.

'Malfoy, what are you doing?'

Draco stopped fiddling with the tray-table and gave Harry a look. 'I'm making sure it's attached, what's it look like I'm doing.'

'Stop touching everything.'

'Stop telling me what not to do.'

Harry rolled his eyes and gave up, at least for the time being. Draco was impossible to argue with; he was as logically challenged as Luna and as stubborn as Hermione.

'This is _insane_,' Draco complained, abandoning his search for loose bits of plane to fiddle with. 'Insane. Completely and utterly barking _mad_. I cannot _believe _I agreed to this. We're all going to _die_.'

'Well, look on the bright side,' Harry said, deadpan; 'if the plane crashes, at least you can say you were right.'

Draco hit him over the head with the laminated safety card. One of the passing flight attendants confiscated it.

'I _hate _you, Potter,' Draco said again when he could not find anything else suitable to bludgeon Harry with. 'I think I may actually hate you more than cats after all.'

Memories of Ron bad-mouthing Crookshanks came to mind, and Harry smiled. 'Nobody is going to die, Draco.'

'_Malfoy_, Potter,' Draco snapped. 'And just because _you _have the unfair advantage of being lucky in the survival department doesn't mean we all have. Some of us are mortal, your Highness.'

'Don't call me that,' Harry said automatically, smiling reassuringly at the flight attendant, who was watching Draco's inspection of his seat with some apprehension. 'Will you cut it out? They're going to chuck us off.'

'Don't get my hopes up,' Draco muttered bitterly. He was peering about the cabin looking rather panicked . 'Oh, Gods, we're stuck on this thing for how long?'

'About nine hours,' Harry said cheerfully.

Draco let out a low moan. 'Merlin help me.'

Harry nearly said something to Draco about how using so much wizarding jargon when surrounded by Muggles and trying to stay undercover was a bit counterproductive, but he was interrupted by a deep, internal rumble that signalled the plane's engines starting up.

Draco, naturally, panicked.

'What's it doing?' he demanded, looking for the source of the noise. 'We're going to die! We haven't even left the ground and we're going to die already!'

'_Quiet_,' Harry hissed. 'Nobody is dying. It's just the engines—'

'Oh, _just _the engines! The engines of _Death_, you mean—'

Not altogether surprisingly, by the time the plane had taxied to the end of the runway and the engines surged for liftoff, Draco was so beside himself that he failed to say anything at all and settled for bracing himself in his seat, head bowed and eyes squeezed shut. Harry might have felt sorry for him if he hadn't looked so utterly ridiculous. Aside from the odd sensation of the engines roaring beneath them, the fast ascension into the sky was familiar; Harry thought perhaps Draco had noticed it too, because as the plane levelled off and the engines settled to a low, constant rumble, he seemed to relax on his own, his breathing calming and the muscles in his jaw and arms loosening.

He also managed to open his eyes and shoot a sideways glare at Harry, steel eyes dark and unhappy. 'This is some sick, twisted way of repaying all the misery I caused you in school, isn't it?'

'Don't know what you mean,' Harry said, and smirked.

The kid sitting behind Harry gave his seat an enormous shove, followed by a shriek of laughter, and then began kicking it in earnest. Harry ground his teeth and Draco started laughing. Harry glared at him.

Draco managed to stop snickering long enough to suggest, 'Karma?' At the answering look on Harry's face, he started laughing again.

: : :

Six hours into the flight, Draco got sick.

Coke and bourbon had settled them both after the takeoff (that damn kid was _still _kicking his seat at regular intervals), and Draco had finally quieted and nodded off, much to Harry's relief. The bickering from the previous days had probably worn Draco out, Harry mused, and he was thinking that he might actually get a little rest himself on this journey until the Captain's voice sounded over the loudspeaker—waking Draco with a start—informing them that they would be experiencing 'mild turbulence' for the remainder of their journey.

Draco narrowed his eyes. 'What does he mean?' he demanded.

'It means the plane might shake a bit,' Harry said simply.

Draco went pale. '_Shake a bit_?' he squeaked.

As if to answer his question itself, the plane gave a prolonged shudder, and Draco steeled himself in his seat.

'Is it supposed to do that?' he demanded, eyes darting from side to side and giving the inside of the plane a suspicious look.

Harry shrugged. 'When there's bad wind shear, I suppose.'

'Wind shear!' Draco yelped, looking even more alarmed. 'Potter, even _wizards _don't fly in unpredictable wind shear—'

'They do in Quidditch,' Harry said. 'Oh, wait, you always weaseled your way out of those matches.'

Draco gave him a dangerous look and made to retort, but the plane shook again, more violently this time, and he went rigid once more.

'Right,' Draco said once the plane had quieted. 'This has got to be the most suicidal thing I've ever done.'

Harry thought that perhaps he looked a bit green. Maybe it was just the low light. 'You'll get over it,' he said, yawning.

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it and swallowed. Very suddenly, he decided aloud, 'I need the loo.'

Okay, maybe it wasn't the light. Harry let him go.

It wasn't until approximately twenty minutes later that Harry started to wonder; perhaps the loo had been an excuse to get away and find a way to Disapparate unnoticed? But surely after the Dementor attack at the ball, Draco wouldn't be stupid enough to go anywhere on his own...

Harry found him in the locked cabin at the back. It was extremely tiny—there was barely room for one person to stand comfortably—with a compact sink and napkin dispenser on one side and the toilet at the back. Draco was sitting on the toilet lid, elbows on his knees and forehead in his hands. Before Harry could backpedal and disappear without being noticed, an older Muggle woman sidled up behind him and made an impatient noise. Mentally cursing himself, Harry stepped fully inside and closed the door with a snap.

Draco looked up and glared at him. His forehead came even with Harry's waist, and Harry was able to fully appreciate how small the bathroom was.

'I suppose asking for a little privacy isn't within my rights, either,' Draco said in a sort of resigned voice.

Harry could feel the warmth of his breath push under the hem of his shirt. Draco looked as if he might have been crying, or perhaps he was just sick to his stomach and on the verge of it. Harry knew better than to think less of him for it; stress and frustration brought people to tears more often than grief, Harry knew that much from experience. He wished he'd decided to stay in his seat.

'Sorry,' he said quickly, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed. 'I just—'

'Thought I'd gotten lost on this boat?' Draco suggested, deadpan. 'Or that I'd finally given you the slip?'

'No,' Harry lied. 'You looked sick—'

'I _am _sick, Potter,' Draco snapped nastily, voice brittle. 'What's it to you?'

Harry wasn't sure what to say to this; he remembered a week ago, when Remus had asked Harry to let Draco stay at the Manor for the weekend to recover—and how ragged Draco had looked until the unicorn incident. Now, giving him another proper look, Harry could see the familiar hollow of his cheeks, the defined circles under his eyes, how transparent his skin looked under the horrible yellow light in the bathroom.

Harry remembered what Lupin had said:_ The last thing anyone has been concerned about since Draco turned himself in is his well-being._

Well, that wasn't _entirely _true, Harry thought. They _were _doing their best to keep him alive...

___We don't __need ____you, but we __can____ use you._

...but for the wrong reasons.

Harry frowned. He felt guilty about enough things; he certainly didn't need to feel guilty about Draco Malfoy, of all people.

The plane shook again and Draco half-lurched, half-lunged for the basin edge with one hand while the other continued to grip his forehead. The yellow light above them flickered; it made him look physically ill, more pallid than usual and with a horrible greenish tint.

Harry raised his wand above his head. 'Nox.' A no-smoking sign on the wall still glowed over them, but at least the light was white and less abrasive than before.

Draco looked up at the sound, his eyes highly reflective in the semi-darkness. 'I think you miss that cupboard more than you let on, Potter.'

His breath hit Harry's midsection again. Harry let the insult go, letting his back slide down the length of the door until he was sitting on the floor, legs bent and feet propped against the wall on either side of the toilet Draco was sitting on.

Draco gave him a steely, suspicious look. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

'I know,' Harry said, shrugging. He could smell Draco's breath this close; he smelt strongly of bourbon. 'That bloody kid kept kicking the back of my seat. It was either come and look for you, or kill it.'

Draco raised an eyebrow. He looked like he might have laughed, had he not currently been feeling so thoroughly nauseous. 'Don't like kids?'

'No,' Harry said. 'Not particularly. Why? Do you?'

'Not particularly,' Draco agreed, giving him a funny look. 'Though I sort of figured you to be the parental type.'

'I guess you sort of figured wrong.'

'Contrary to popular belief, I have been known to be incorrect on rare occasions,' Draco informed him, smirking. 'No kids, then?'

'No,' Harry said, then returned the smirk. 'Well,' he added, 'not on purpose, anyway.' Draco gave a derisive snort. Harry smiled a little, then tried to hide it. 'You?'

Draco's eyes were studying the door behind the top of Harry's head. 'Doesn't really matter whether I do or not,' he said, shrugging.

'You are an adult now, if you haven't noticed. You can make your own decisions.'

'Can I?' Draco asked scathingly. 'News to me.'

Harry frowned. He really didn't know what to say to that.

Draco saved him from having to respond by changing the subject. 'Is that mark permanent?'

Harry looked at his unlucky forearm, balanced casually on his bent knee. It had been healed, for the most part; Gawain would have him back on active duty soon. All that remained of the curse's damage was a twisted, salmon-coloured scar that began on the inside of his elbow and tapered off across the inside of his wrist towards his palm, cutting straight across the scar Wormtail had left him, much older and a lighter, hardly-visible pink. He turned his arm upwards so it was fully visible in the dim light, and could see that the combined scar tissue created a narrow, elongated 'X'.

'Dunno,' he answered truthfully. 'Doesn't really matter. They all fade with time, anyway.'

'No,' Draco said, his eyes sliding to Harry's forehead. 'Not all of them.'

Harry was so busy watching Draco's eyes that he nearly jumped at the unexpected touch; while his eyes had flickered to the scar on Harry's forehead, Draco had reached out with his left hand and gingerly touched the beginning of the other scar with two fingers. Harry looked down and watched as Draco slid his fingers from his elbow, following the jagged line, his touch light and warm and lingering over the pulse-point on the underside of Harry's wrist. It suddenly felt as though what little air there was in the room had been sucked out, and Harry's neck and collar began to swelter. The touch tingled and tickled like crazy, but Harry inhaled a sharp breath and held his arm steady.

Draco continued to drag his index finger along Harry's lifeline, and Harry looked up as the touch crossed his palm to find Draco already watching him.

'Does it hurt?' Draco asked, his fingers remaining resting on Harry's palm. The pads of his fingertips were brushing against the insides of Harry's fingers.

Harry blinked, then shook his head. 'No,' he said, flexing his fingers. He regretted it a moment later, because Draco quickly pulled his hand away and Harry had a sudden, tangible memory of angry, shoving hands and a body that flinched away from his own. 'Only the one.'

Harry was hoping that would get Draco to look at him—the merest reference to his infantile miracle and eyes tended to wander to his scar unconsciously—but Draco was watching his hands, which were clasped together in his lap. Harry frowned, because Draco was damn hard to read even when he looked you directly in the eye, and it was impossible to find even a hint of what he was thinking when you were in the dark and he refused to look up at all.

Harry decided to be frank. 'What are you thinking about?'

At that, Draco did look up. He looked surprised and slightly troubled—and someone hammered harshly on the door at Harry's back. Both he and Draco tried to stand up at the same time, and Harry ended up butting his head into Draco's stomach. Draco made a choking noise and lurched unsteadily into the sink again.

'Ow,' Draco said thickly after a moment's recovery, cradling his stomach.

'Ow,' Harry agreed, rubbing his forehead. The someone outside hammered on the door again. 'Bugger,' he added, then, forgetting where they were, called out, 'Hold your bloody Hippogriffs!'

There was a pause in the hammering, during which Harry struggled to his feet again, carefully avoiding any more collisions with Draco, who was still wincing and holding onto his abdomen.

'Your head,' Draco said with painful concentration, 'is like a cauldron full of bricks.'

'Yeah, well, it's not like you're exactly soft either,' Harry mumbled, rubbing his forehead. He went to open the door, then paused. 'Er,' he said. 'This is probably going to look a bit odd.'

'God forbid,' Draco said, deadpan. 'What will we do, our reputation soiled under the mighty eyes of Muggles. I shall never be able to show my face in the wizarding world again. Oh wait,' he added, stepping up to Harry and taking the lock in his own hand, 'I already can't. Silly me.'

He opened the door and stepped out, and Harry suddenly wished he'd just told the person outside to bugger off.

: : :

Draco shoved past Harry and found himself face-to-face with Ron Weasley.

'Despite what you two may think,' he drawled, 'I'm more than capable of using the loo on my own.'

Ron made an extremely rude gesture that Draco was sure he would have thought twice about if Draco had been allowed a wand. 'I need to talk with you,' he said to Harry over Draco's shoulder. 'Alone, if that's all right.'

'Yeah,' Harry said as Draco stepped out from between them. 'You can find your way back to the seats, can't you?'

Draco rolled his eyes by way of a response and left them there, making his way down the tiny pathway on the left side of the plane. He knew Harry would, given the chance, likely want to pick up the conversation where they'd left off—something Draco no longer had the courage to do. Halfway down the aisle, he spied the mass of bushy hair in the centre row that marked their line of seats.

'Fancy meeting you here,' he drawled, slipping into the seat beside Hermione. 'Are you well? How are the kids holding up? That is a _fabulous _tan, by the way—'

'Draco,' Hermione interrupted, lowering her book and giving him a stern, sideways look. 'What do you want?'

'Why, love, just the pleasure of your company.'

'Since when have you considered my company pleasurable?'

'Why do you insist on being so hostile when people compliment you?'

'You still haven't answered my question,' she said tiredly.

'Actually,' he pointed out, 'I already answered that. Whether or not you believe me isn't my problem.'

'Merlin, you're insufferable,' she muttered, picking up her book and burying herself in it again.

'These Muggle types,' he went on, undeterred, 'bloody slow creatures, aren't they? You'd think they'd spot us right away, sitting in their midst, swearing away on Merlin and his ancestors...'

'Is it a hobby of yours,' she said from behind her book, 'irritating people? Do you actually have to work at it, or does it just come to you?'

'It just comes,' he assured her, pleased. 'It is a gift from the gods, to rile the masses with the merest effort of my tongue—'

'Well then, while your tongue is here and being a bother,' she interrupted again, putting her book back down on her lap, 'I want to ask you something.'

'Ask me no questions and I shall tell you no—'

'Are you gay?'

Draco, taken completely off guard, nearly blanched. 'What?'

'Are you gay?' Hermione repeated, as if she were asking him if he were Catholic or something. She saw the incredulous look on his face and added, 'Well, it's just, Blaise sort of implied, and I didn't want to just take his word for it and assume—'

'Sorry,' he said, the icy edge returning to his voice. 'Since when the hell is that _any _of your business?'

'Like I said, I didn't want to assume,' she said with a shrug, completely unabashed. 'I said I wanted to ask you something. I never said you had to answer.'

Draco didn't quite know what to say to this. He'd been on a roll with the bollocks and she'd effectively thrown him off it, and he was finding it rather impossible to pick it up again considering the topic at hand. He felt a burning hatred towards Blaise begin to boil inside him; if he'd implied _that_, what _else _had he told her?

She watched him for a moment, then raised an eyebrow. 'You're not ashamed of it, are you?'

'Did I say I was?' he replied coldly, holding her gaze.

If she noticed the heat he felt rise in his cheeks, she did not comment, but raised both eyebrows this time. 'That you were ashamed, or that you're—' but before she could finish, a curt voice over Draco's head rescued him by demanding, 'What are you doing in my seat?'

'Ron, it's not your seat, Draco was just—' Hermione began.

'Leaving,' Draco finished for her, standing and giving Ron a cold, level glare. As he pushed past he caught Hermione casting him a disapproving look past Ron's elbow. Draco ignored it and slipped back into his seat by the window. Harry rejoined him with an enquiring glance that Draco forcibly ignored.

'I, er, think we're nearly there,' Harry said conversationally.

Draco rolled his eyes, turning to rest his forehead against the window, looking for something to occupy him; an expanse of white, endless clouds stretched in every direction below the plane, a gigantic luxury mattress, like the sort he was used to at home. He heard and felt Harry shift in the seat beside him, but he did not persist in trying to capture Draco's attention.

_Just as well, _Draco thought bitterly. They'd just be fooling themselves anyway.

: : :

_'Voilà_!'

The landing hadn't been nearly as nerve-wracking as the take-off, mostly because Draco had been eager to disembark 'that Muggle hell boat' more than anything else. The airport they'd flown to, nestled just outside of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia's capital, was much more impressive than any of them had been expecting of an African city—it had automatic doors, escalators and elevators, French cafés, designer shops, even air-conditioning. And while Hermione, escorted by Ron (who absolutely refused to let her wander off on her own), fluttered off to secure their transportation, Harry was left to watch Draco, who was currently occupying himself by investigating a Muggle hat shop in the lobby.

Harry tried to swallow a laugh and choked on it, some of it escaping through a snort.

Draco raised an eyebrow, which disappeared under the brim of the old army cap he was wearing. 'What?' he demanded, turning back around to appraise himself in the mirror. He tilted his head to the side, met Harry's eyes in the mirror and cocked a smirk. 'This is an _awesome _hat.'

Well, Harry at least would agree it looked less silly on him than a witch's cap. 'Put it down, Malfoy, or the Muggles will assume you're buying.'

Draco turned to look at him over his shoulder, leering at him from under his black brim, grey eyes alight in the shadow. 'Potter, I am _always _buying.'

Before Harry could point out that he wouldn't be buying anything without Muggle money, Hermione came running back towards them from the crowd, Ron in tow. 'Okay! I managed to find us a cab. But the furthest north they'll go is Bahir Dar, and from there we have to walk or find another—Malfoy, what are you doing?'

'I want this hat,' he said, turning to face them and pulling the brim low over his eyes, making his hair splay everywhere. 'In fact, we should all have hats! Heatstroke kills, you know.'

Ron rolled his eyes but Hermione blinked and seemed to consider Draco's words carefully.

'You know,' she said, 'Draco makes a fair point. We're about to get a lot more sun than we're used to.'

'_Malfoy_, Granger,' Draco corrected reflexively. 'And I _always_make fair points, whether your intellect deigns to acknowledge them as such or not.'

'I'm not wearing a bloody hat,' Ron said, looking slightly alarmed at the way Draco picked up a bowler off the rack and began grinning at him. 'I'd rather take the heatstroke.'

'Suit yourself,' Hermione said, picking up a plain slouch hat without bothering to look at it. 'Let's get these quickly, the cab won't wait long.'

Draco insisted on buying Harry a cowboy hat, which he flatly refused to wear; he sat in the backseat of the dusty jeep, the hat in his lap, beside Ron, who had his arms folded and was glaring at the back of Draco's head. The driver of their cab was a tall, lanky bloke in a khaki jumpsuit, his skin the approximate colour of molasses. He wore a tweed hat and had bright, white teeth that were blinding against his dark complexion, and seemed especially taken with Hermione. Then again, Hermione was the only young white woman Harry had seen since they left the airport, so she was probably something of a treat.

'He said his name is Zalelew,' she translated, looking pleased. 'He says he can introduce us to a man at Bahir Dar who sells cheap camels, if we like.'

'When did you learn to speak African?' Ron demanded.

Next to Draco, Hermione sighed, her bush of hair restrained in a tight ponytail. 'It's _Amharic_, not _African_. And I only had time to learn a few phrases before we left.'

'A few phrases?' Draco asked, looking incredulous, while Hermione shrugged. 'Your _savoir-faire_ is only outdone by your penchant for understatement, I do hope you know.'

Hermione, mysteriously, blushed and said nothing. Harry wasn't entirely sure whether it was a compliment or not, but that was probably because he had no idea what in the hell her _savoir-faire _was. He might even have felt inclined to join Draco in his stupefaction, were he not already so used to Hermione's proficiency with, well, everything. The fact that she'd just held a seven-minute conversation with an Ethiopian taxi driver did not faze him at all.

'I don't know what he's up to,' Ron muttered dangerously, so only Harry could hear, 'but if he does _anything _to her, I'll kill him myself.'

Harry did not bother to point out that, technically, he was supposed to report fellow Aurors for such threats. Because really, if Draco did anything to intentionally harm any of his friends, he would likely do the same. But Ron had been obsessing over this idea since he'd confided in Harry on the plane, and although Harry thought it was a bit far-fetched, he couldn't really come up with a solid argument against it.

'I really think you're reading too far into this,' Harry told him, keeping his voice low. Not that it mattered, for Draco and Hermione were already absorbed in an argument about whether Amharic or Arabic was the more prominent language of the continent and were not paying the backseat any attention whatsoever. 'I mean, he's all right when it's just us two, too. Most of the time, anyway. It might just be you.'

'Of course he's kissing _your _arse,' Ron hissed. 'He sort of _has _to. I still don't see why _they _have to be so fucking friendly.'

Well, thought Harry, to be fair, it was mostly Hermione being friendly. Draco just sometimes gave up on being a callous bastard and went along with it. He decided not to voice that opinion, though, opting for another strategy. 'She's a Muggleborn,' he pointed out. 'For him, that'd be like, worse than fancying _you_, you realise.'

'Yeah? Says who?' Ron sank lower in his seat, eyes burning at the back of the white-blonde head. Draco, oblivious, was laughing at something the driver had told them in the native tongue, which he could now apparently understand. 'First the ball, now this—I really hope we find whatever the hell it is we're here for, because the sooner we can get rid of him, the better. The way she talks about him is starting to make me wonder—'

'Ron,' Harry interrupted tiredly, 'I really don't think—'

The driver laughed out loud at something Draco had just finished saying, drowning out the rest of Harry's words. Hermione was smiling when she turned back to them, cheeks flushed from laughing and flyaway tendrils of hair stuck to her face. 'Draco is _incredible _at this,' she said, shaking her head in disbelief. 'I've _never_seen someone adapt to a language this quickly. He's picked it up faster than I did!'

'Yes, well,' Draco said, feigning modesty, badly. He didn't even bother to correct her use of his given name. 'Fluency in Latin makes learning any common tongue rather easy, and this dialect is close enough to Arabic that it's practically the same anyway.'

Hermione turned back around and started talking to the driver again, who was spending more time watching her than the road. Draco, smug smirk in place, draped his arm around the back of her chair and proceeded to ignore them.

If it had been any hotter, there probably would have been steam coming from Ron's ears. It must have been hard enough, Harry thought, being best mates with the Chosen One for the past decade. But this was not the first time Ron had lost the battle for Hermione's attention to a silver-tongued millionaire.

'She got sick of Krum after a while, too,' Harry pointed out.

Ron scowled and said nothing.

By car, Bahir Dar was several hours north and slightly west of Addis Ababa. The road ran straight through the loop of the Blue Nile but, aside from the crossing just south of a city Hermione informed them was called Dejen, Harry did not catch so much as a glimpse of it alongside the road they were travelling on. Instead, out the window of the jeep Harry spied an abundance of flat, dusty landscape with the darker shadow of deep jungles at the bases of rocky mountains and plateaus in the far distance. The sky was large and clear, a bright, periwinkle blue that clashed with the rusty aspect of everything on the ground. The dull scenery made the trip pass slowly, and by the time the cab turned off the main road and rolled into a run-down, scattered assortment of buildings, it felt like they'd been driving for days. The sun was burning low and red on the horizon as they made their way deeper into the rows and rows of tattered stores and homes.

'Rather small, isn't it?' Harry said, eyeing the buildings with some distaste.

'A bit,' Ron agreed, looking just as apprehensive. 'Isn't this supposed to be one of the larger cities?'

'Must be luxury for you, Weasley,' Draco remarked casually, watching the battered homes pass with an upturn of his nose.

Any retort Ron would have made was cut off by the driver exclaiming something in Amharic, pulling the jeep over and hopping out, gesturing enthusiastically for Hermione to follow. Outside, Harry was overwhelmed by the musty smells of cluttered poverty—small fires were burning inside tin cylinders, piles of random belongings and filthy clothes lay about the street, and all the while, skinny, tattered-looking African Muggles cast suspicious, even wary looks their way. It suddenly occurred to Harry that, considering their surroundings, they must look like a party of fantastically wealthy Europeans—Draco in particular, who as always managed to emit an aura that suggested he owned the very air he breathed.

Hermione paid the cab driver, who had directed them to a small collection of huts just off the main street. 'We still need to get to Gonder,' she said, as the cab backed out of the drive and spun away, leaving them quite literally in the dust. 'There's too much of a mixture between Muggles and wizards here to be sure no one gets suspicious—I mean, we have to assume he's watching it, even if he's hired Squibs to do it for him, so it's probably best if we stayed off the road.' She looked around and sighed. 'It's a bit far to walk, though...'

'I thought you were getting camels?' Ron asked, dusting off his jeans.

'I am not riding one of those filthy beasts,' Draco said severely, eyeing the camels tethered outside one of the multi-coloured tents.

'You can walk, then,' Harry said, shrugging. 'He said they were cheap here, didn't he?'

'Only one way to find out,' Hermione said heavily.

Squaring her shoulders, she led them up to the tent with the camels outside. Many of the neighbors came outside their flaps, goods in hand, and started barraging them all with offers. Hermione ignored them; she stepped up to the squat, bearded man caressing one of the camels and said something in Amharic. The man looked her up and down, folded his arms, and answered; Hermione cleared her throat, looking briefly back at Harry and Ron before trying again, but the man just shook his head and folded his arms.

'Your money,' he said in broken English, 'no good here. _Dabo. Chew. Woyne_. English money, no good!'

'Tell him you'll double it,' Draco told her. She gave him a look, which he held fast and returned. 'Just _do__it__,_ Granger.'

She turned back to the bearded man and tried once more. He began shaking his head again, muttering in agitation.

'No good!' he insisted. '_Woyne. Qalab_!' he said again, folding his arms. Then, a nasty grin appeared on his face, and he reached out to touch Hermione's chin with his hand. '_Da, täbada_, also.'

Hermione flinched away and Draco, quickly stepping in front of her, assaulted the man so quickly and fluently in his own language that the he backpedaled into his tent, shouting angrily and waving his arms. Hermione, startled, seized Draco by the elbow and pulled him away even as he started forward again, snarling something vicious into the dark opening the man had disappeared into.

'No good!' came the shouts from within. 'Your money no good!'

'What the hell is going on?' Ron demanded as Hermione dragged Draco back to them.

'Fucking savages,' Draco snarled venomously. '_No good_, my arse. Since when the hell is money _no good?_'

'Since they can't eat your money,' Hermione said, releasing him to rub her shoulders and looking upset. 'All they want is food. Food or wine.'

Draco made a short, derisive sound. 'Or sex, apparently.'

'Yes, well,' Hermione said, blushing. '_No, _Ron,' she continued firmly as Ron's ears turned red, 'it's _fine_. Draco already insulted enough of his ancestors for the both of you, and if you please, this is going to take long enough on foot as it is.'

Once again, Draco didn't bother to correct her use of his name. She withdrew a heavily folded piece of parchment from within her bag and unfolded a portion of it, pointing to a small dot beneath a large blue lake. 'This is where we are,' she said, and traced a path along the western edge of the lake until it met the larger, more solid dot just north of it. 'And that's Gonder. Bill's supposed to be meeting us there in two days, but if we're walking we might want to send an owl ahead, it'll take us at least a week by foot.'

'Granger,' Draco said, looking around briefly, 'do you really think they use owls here?'

'Oh, whatever then,' she said, bristling. 'Let's just find a place to stay, we'll need a full night's rest if we plan to do this.'

She stuffed the parchment back in her bag and led them down the street, which was littered with everything from rubbish to human beings, some sitting with their backs against the graffitied stone walls of stores, others perched on kerbs or lying listlessly along pavements and inside the alcoves of buildings. The smell was terrible and overwhelming, a combination of mould, urine and bad hygiene. Not that the only people they saw were homeless or impoverished; there were plenty of others walking past, loud and vulgar and giving the four wizards in their midst as much attention as the sick and starved at their feet. Dirty, beaten-down cars and motorbikes sped around corners and down the small street at alarming speeds, and Harry could hear people shouting in the distance along with something that sounded suspiciously like gunfire.

A withered woman, who was probably no older than Hermione but looked double it, was sitting on a pile of garbage at the edge of the corner where they stopped while waiting for a pair of jeeps racing down the road to pass. Wrapped in her arms was an extremely bloated toddler trying to breastfeed, but judging by the malnourished look of the woman, it was likely a futile attempt. She looked up at them as they stopped, at Hermione in particular, and smiled weakly. Harry could see that most of her teeth were missing.

'This is disgusting,' Draco hissed, wrinkling his nose.

Harry's anger flared. Muggles or not, he'd really had enough of Draco abusing people who weren't fortunate enough to have been born with an inheritance to last them a lifetime. He turned to the blonde, furious, only to find that Draco wasn't looking down at the woman with contempt or disdain. It was something else, masked by the way he was scrunching his nose up at the smell. He looked... well, disgusted.

'It is,' Hermione agreed heavily, shaking her head. 'I wish there was something we could do...'

'Hermione,' Ron warned. 'You know the laws—'

'Yes, yes,' she snapped, stepping off the kerb as the cars rushed past, leaving the road full of dust. 'I just _wish_.'

Draco narrowed his eyes and followed her. Giving Harry a look, Ron stepped off after them. Halfway across, when the dust began to settle, Harry noticed that while Hermione and Ron had made it to the other side of the street, Draco had stopped midway. He was squatting down so that he was eye-level with a young girl—she couldn't have been more than five or six—standing in the middle of the road. She had a glazed, faraway look in her eyes, and didn't respond when Draco passed his hand once, then twice in front of her eyes. Draco looked up at Harry when he stopped beside him.

'We should get out of the road,' Harry advised. 'I don't think these are the sort of people that'll stop for pedestrians.'

Draco looked back at the girl. She was wearing what looked like a ragged brown pillowcase, and even against such dark skin, the smudged dirt and grime was visible. Her hair was matted and uneven, and Harry realised she looked rather like a starved house-elf. Draco passed his hand in front of her eyes again; she didn't so much as blink.

'This is really, truly,' Draco said, standing, 'absolutely _disgusting_.'

'Most wizards don't treat house-elves any better,' Harry pointed out.

Draco looked sharply up at him, grey eyes cold. 'House-elves,' he snapped, 'are not fucking human beings.'

Harry thought that statement was pretty rich coming from a Malfoy, considering how many pure-bloods tended to regard Muggle-borns with less respect than they did their servants. 'You think Voldemort would treat Muggle-borns, or even Muggles any better?'

'The Dark Lord would kill them,' Draco said plainly, looking down at the girl. 'And that, however barbaric, shows more mercy than _this_.'

He took the girl roughly by the hand and yanked her aside; she went limply, but she went, stumbling sideways as he hauled her out of the street and onto the pavement. Harry quickly followed, driven urgently by the warning sounds of approaching engines coming from a nearby street. When they were safely by Ron and Hermione, Draco dropped the girl's hand and it flopped to her side. She stared on, unaware, or simply unwilling to care. Hermione looked like she very much wanted to cry. Draco just looked furious.

'Disgusting,' he muttered again, dusting his hand off on his trousers as they walked, leaving the girl standing at the side of the street. He was glaring at Harry. 'Remind me, once again, _why _you want to save these people?'

Harry honestly didn't know what to tell him.

: : :

'Thank you,' Hermione said—or at least, hoped she'd said. The man behind the counter grinned toothily at her, so she assumed he'd got the message. Draco really was much better at this than she was, but he hadn't talked to anyone since they'd left that little girl standing alone by the street.

She took the thin, stiff towels and trotted back up the two staircases to the third floor, where they'd managed to secure a single room. It was tiny and cramped and smelled strongly of sawdust, but that was better than the urine-and-garbage smell from outside. There was one filthy window on the far wall that looked down on to the street, a tiny adjacent bathroom with a sink and a toilet, two single beds with bare minimum linens. Not a five-star hotel, for sure, but it would do.

'There's a pair of shower stalls in the shared bathroom down the hall,' she said, dropping the small pile of towels on one of the beds. 'Best have one now, before we start out. Could be a while before you get another chance.'

She looked at the three of them: Ron sitting on the other bed, Harry beside him, both looking solemnly at the floor—and Draco, with his back against the wall, arms folded and glaring out the window.

'Well, don't all get up at once,' she said sardonically.

Harry sighed heavily and stood, grabbing a towel on his way.

Hermione handed him the bag and said, 'Ron should go with you—we shouldn't really go anywhere alone while we're here.'

'Someone has to stay here with you,' Harry pointed out.

'I believe Draco and I have already shown that we are more than able to take care of ourselves,' she said, giving him a meaningful look. 'It's only for a few minutes, go on.'

Ron opened his mouth to protest the arrangement, but Harry cut him off before he could. 'Leave it, she's right, let's just get it over with.'

Draco hadn't so much as looked their way since taking his place by the wall, so Hermione set about arranging the linens with various waves of her wand and checking the map she'd brought along to make sure she had a planned route for tomorrow. To the north, there was a few miles of open savannah that would run into a thick band of jungle, then back to savannah and then jungle again—finally, a deep canyon of a river running out of the lake to the east, then a quick, level trek the rest of the way to Gonder. On foot, the trip would take them five days if they kept good time, six at most. She prepared a letter to have owled—or whatever they used down here—to Bill in the morning, alerting him to their delay.

She was so absorbed in her work that she didn't notice that Draco had finally looked at her until he spoke. 'Why do you insist on calling me that?'

'What, by your name?' she asked casually, raising her eyebrows. 'That is what it's for, isn't it?'

'Don't play the idiot, Granger, it doesn't suit you,' he snapped, pushing away from the wall and standing with his back to the window. The setting sun cast an orange and red halo around him, accentuating the sharp lines of his shoulder and turning his hair a deep gold. 'I don't know what you're playing at, referring to me like I'm—'

'A person?' she offered, nonplussed. 'A friend?'

'—one of your bloody charity cases,' he finished firmly, still glaring, though the use of the word 'friend' seemed to have thrown him a bit. 'Don't think I don't see right through your little benevolent bullshit.'

She sighed, and tried to find the right words to express her thoughts. 'It's not that—I don't think of you like that. And I wouldn't say that if it wasn't the truth, I have no reason to lie about it. It's just—well, it's _stupid_,' she said honestly. Draco merely raised an eyebrow. 'And you know it is, too, all these uptight mannerisms and the formality, it's like you're _trying _to distance yourself—'

'Just caught on to that, have you?'

'—and like I said, it's _stupid_,' she finished. 'And I know you think that Harry is just using you, and nothing else, but if that was the truth, he would have taken what you'd given him and then had you thrown in Azkaban. And he could, too, very easily—all he would have to do is say the word, because cleared of those charges _or not _there are still a million things he could try to pin on you, and you know as well as I do, if it was his word against yours, _you would lose_.'

'So why doesn't he then!' Draco snapped. 'Why the hell is he dragging me around, like I'm still any good to him—'

'Because he made a deal, a _promise_, to protect you,' she said. 'You _and _your mother. And he is doing the best he can. Throwing you in Azkaban would be as bad as handing you over to Vol—You-Know-Who, and he knows it. He can only help your mother as much as she'll allow it, and _just _so you know, he's had Blaise and Remus stationed at the Palazzo since the night we left, keeping a twenty-four hour watch on her.'

Draco stared stupidly at her for a moment. Then he swallowed and said, 'But—'

'And as far as bringing you along is concerned—' she continued briskly, '—the best way he can protect _you_is by being _with you_ as much as possible. Why do you think he keeps us _all _close? Ron, me, Luna, Fred, George, Ginny, Remus, _everyone_,' she repeated, 'every single person that he cares about, he keeps close, because he's terrified of what could happen one day if they need him, and he's not there. He's lost too many people already and he's sworn not to lose any more, which is _stupid _of him to do—yes, I know that—but when he makes a promise, he keeps it or_ dies trying_.'

It took her a moment to realise Draco was leaning back against the window for support; she hadn't been shouting, but that probably _had_been a lot of information to swallow at once, and as guarded as his expression was, she could see him struggling with which part to react to first. She waited, quietly, turning away and allowing him several minutes to think it over.

When he finally spoke, however, the first words out of his mouth sent her off again.

'Look, Granger—'

'_Hermione_,' she snapped, spinning back around to glare at him. 'My _name _is _Hermione_. That, or it's _Miss Granger_, because if you are going to insist on being _stupid_, you're at least going to do it _politely_!'

'Hermione,' he amended quickly, looking alarmed. '_Hermione_, all right? Kill the flame under your cauldron. I just—'

And then Harry and Ron came back, swinging open the door and immediately dissolving the words on his tongue.

'Er.' Harry, dressed in jeans, bare-chested and with water still dripping from his hair, looked back and forth between them at the sudden silence. He was holding onto both ends of the towel thrown around his neck, and Hermione momentarily considered strangling him with it for having the worst timing in the world. 'Are we interrupting something?'

'I was just starting to complain you were using up all the hot water,' Draco said smoothly, surveying him with a wrinkled nose. 'And now, apparently, rinsing the floor with it.'

Ron, equally shirtless but not nearly as wet, threw his sodden towel at Draco, who dodged it with a sneer. 'Shut up, you arse. All the water's cold anyway.'

Hermione huffed and picked up the remaining towels and then took Draco by the wrist. He stared at her, too bewildered to react instinctively and pull away. 'Don't argue,' she warned. 'I don't care if it's cold, you're having one, too.'

'You can't go with _him_!' Ron exclaimed, outraged. 'It's only a single bathroom!'

'The stalls are separate,' Hermione said, completely unconcerned. 'And we can't go _anywhere_alone, and _you _certainly aren't coming with me, Ronald Weasley.'

She gave Draco a tug and found him coming easily, smirking nastily at Ron as he went.

'Sorry, Weasley,' he drawled. 'Malfoy charm, women can't resist. Nothing to be done about it, I'm afraid.' He closed the door behind them, leaving Ron open-mouthed in speechless outrage and Harry shaking his head in dismay.

Hermione dropped Draco's wrist, putting her hands on her hips. 'Except _boast _about it, apparently.'

Draco looked at her, and suddenly burst out laughing.

'Oh, come _on_,' he said, following her as she rolled her eyes and stalked away. 'The look on his face was _priceless_.'

: : :

_Despite our artistic pretensions, sophistication and accomplishments,  
We still owe our existence to a six-inch layer of topsoil  
And the fact that it rains_  
- attributed to an ancient Chinese text

: : :

During the first half day of their trip, by the time the sun had hit its summit in the sky and begun trailing down sometime in the early afternoon, Draco had discovered two things. First, that Africa really _was_as hot, flat and boring as it had looked from the car and, second, that Ron Weasley was most definitely the _extremely _jealous type. Draco had also found that these two discoveries balanced each other out quite nicely, for while he was sweating and baking under his new hat in a way that was certainly less than dignified, at least he was making a Weasley completely miserable by courting his girlfriend at the same time.

It had all been good fun, until they'd run into a small but abrupt decline right before the first expanse of jungle they had to navigate. Almost like a tiny canyon, it ran horizontally across their path with no end in sight, and they needed to proceed directly forward. Hermione had at once turned to the map for guidance, but Ron, obviously desperate to prove his worth, was suddenly of the opinion that they should make their way down using the many long vines protruding from the dusty ground and hanging over the side.

Draco tried to be the voice of reason here—after all, they didn't know where these roots were lodged, if they were lodged at all, and much less whether they could support his fat head on the way down. Ron immediately turned to Harry, who, even after Draco had presented a flawless argument out of fear for his own neck, decided they would give it a go anyway.

Draco was sitting on his arse in a large, dry pile of dust, leaves and pieces of timber, which were sticking painfully into delicate places. Ron was lying in a crumpled heap beside him, looking quite dazed.

'Oh, _lovely _idea, Weasley. Really—truly brilliant powers of deduction you have, _so glad_ we have you to make these sorts of decisions.'

'Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.'

Draco ground his teeth and stood up, dusting off his jeans as he did so. So far, he had not been all that impressed with Africa; all he had seen was scraggly, parched vegetation and a large amount of dust. But now before them stood an imposing, tangled wall of greens and browns that was full of the exotic chirps of unfamiliar songbirds and the rustling of leaves in the warm breeze. He glanced sideways at the trio, all of whom looked unconcerned except for Weasley.

'Um,' Ron said. 'So, we're not going _in _there, are we?'

But Hermione had already swung her bag onto her back, rolled up her sleeves and plunged into the tangle, using her wand as a sort of magical machete. Ron looked at Harry, who shrugged and followed after her, disappearing into the thicket. Draco and Ron looked at the shadowy tunnel they had created, then at each other; Draco may have been a coward, but the only thing that could overcome his paranoia was his pride. Throwing Ron a well-practised smirk, he plunged inside.

The jungle had an entirely different atmosphere to the flat, barren landscape they had landed in. It was cooler in the shadow of the canopy but about three times as humid; he'd barely gone three steps before the sweat began to gather between his shoulder blades, making his shirt feel extremely sticky. Twigs and low-hanging branches clawed at his face, tangling in his hair as he pushed through. Hermione had cut a path, but she was considerably shorter than the rest of them, and Draco had to duck to avoid the worst of the brambles. It was slow going and extremely claustrophobic, like pushing one's way through a wardrobe full of heavy jackets.

Inside, the noise was deafening. He could not hear Ron enter and follow behind him, nor could he see or hear the others ahead of him—the freshly-cut path was his only guide as the jungle sang high and low overhead, tiny beams of sunlight trickling through the thick canopy and playing tricks on his eyes as he pushed on. He seemed to trudge for hours—the undergrowth was thankfully minimal, probably because the treetops overhead hogged most of the sunlight, but it was still a laborious hike. His cheeks stung with scratches from the virulent foliage and his shirt and hair were plastered to his skin with sweat; he would have been thoroughly miserable if not for the happy assumption that Weasley, taller and stuck trailing behind him, was fairing even worse due to Draco's complete disregard as he allowed branches he pushed aside to whiplash behind him.

Draco stepped carefully over a root, looked up, and stopped. There was a fork in the path—the one to the left was clearer, as if it had been cut more recently, but just as Draco decided to go that way, something large hit him from behind.

'Bloody fucking—_Christ_, Weasley, your eyesight is worse than Potter's.'

'What the hell were you stopped in the middle of the path for?' Ron was rubbing dirt off his temple, or at least attempting to—really, all he was doing was spreading it around. 'Which way did they go?'

Draco raised an eyebrow, and pointed at the much-unworn path to the right. 'That way.'

'Right,' Ron said, shoving past him. _'I'm_ going first this time.'

For a moment, Draco watched him go with mingled feelings of exasperation and smugness. He could continue down the left path, leaving Weasley to wander where he would, and claim innocence when the others noticed Weasley had not followed behind. It would be so easy, really.

_Aside from the fact that Potter will likely not believe a word of it and kill you on the spot._

Sighing, Draco called out, 'Weasley, you complete tit, you're going the wrong way.'

The gaping hole Weasley had left in his wake did not reply. Draco raised his eyes to the hidden sky and muttered a curse. He was thinner and more agile than Ron and could fit through the tangle of vines easily, and quickly followed the path right, calling out 'Weasley!' and various insults at regular intervals, each time pausing for breath and in wait of a reply. He'd gone about ten metres when the path began to deteriorate, presently leaving him standing in the middle of an unmarked jungle, with no definite path to follow any further. Ron was nowhere in sight and still not answering.

'You better be dead when I find you,' Draco muttered savagely to his shadowy surroundings, 'or I am going to _kill you_.'

Perhaps if he had stopped whispering empty threats under his breath, he would have heard it sooner.

As it was, it took Draco another ten minutes of directionless wandering to notice that the once-noisy canopy had fallen deathly quiet. It was unnaturally still—not even a small breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees—making the atmosphere feel tense. It was as if the jungle around him had taken a huge breath and then held it, and it made him shiver.

'_Weasley_,' he hissed, eyes searching the deep, green shadows. Perhaps Ron had turned his own joke on him; left him alone to wander, maybe even going as far as to cast eerie spells around him despite Hermione's warnings that they were to use as little magic as possible in order to avoid being noticed or followed.

_Buggering prat,_ Draco thought viciously. _Does he really think I'm that stupid?_

_Nobody _played tricks on a Slytherin and got away with it; when Draco found that git, he was going to get what for—

A twig snapped somewhere behind him. Draco froze mid-step, holding his breath and staying completely still save for his eyes, which darted quickly from side to side in search of the source of the noise. Nothing in the jungle moved. There was a low rumble, like a deep, disembodied purr—and then someone grabbed Draco roughly by the back of his neck and yelled in his ear, _'Run_!'

There was a wild moment of scrambling and stumbling, an indignant noise of protest and a sound of alarm, before the noise of the two of them was completely drowned out by a roar that sounded as if it came from the bowels of Hell itself.

Instinctively, Draco leapt to the side—Ron went the other way and the beast landed between them in a snarling heap. Draco had a frozen instant to take the animal in; it looked chestnut in the shadows, but the few rays of light that penetrated the canopy above showed it to be a tawny animal, enormous but lithe, its long body crouched in preparation for another leap. Round ears lay flat against its head, and the muscles of its shoulders coiled and rippled around a darker, shaggier mane that was thicker than the rest of its coat. It looked briefly in the direction that Ron had turned and sprinted, then at Draco, yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, and seemed to make up its mind; and with a sudden horror, Draco realised that, between him and Weasley, he was the smaller one.

_Go figure._

Draco took another instant to reflect on how much he hated cats, braced himself for it, and then Ron shouted, '_Stupefy_!'

Mid-leap, the lion stumbled, and Draco could have choked on his relief. The cat hit the ground with its stomach and chin, legs splayed ungracefully and looking confused, but almost immediately began to stir. Draco felt the feeling of dread return—it was far too large an animal, non-magical or not, for a single Stunning Spell to take proper effect. It scrambled quickly to its feet and Draco stumbled backwards, his back smacking into the trunk of a tree, then Ron tried again—this time the animal roared in annoyance as it stumbled yet again, tripping over itself.

Ron had taken advantage of the delayed pounce to circle his way around and grab Draco by the elbow, dragging him sideways just as the lion leapt again, leaving sizeable gashes in the bark of the tree. Draco didn't bother to look behind him after that—he followed Ron's lead, and ran. He had no idea how they were avoiding it—the cat was obviously faster and stronger than they were, and was too close on their tails to give them time to stop and scramble up a tree, and for all Draco knew the damn thing could climb them anyway. Their only advantage was that the jungle was thick with trees for them to dodge around, which seemed to disorientate the predator; and since there were two of them, the lion seemed to keep changing its mind about who to chase.

The both rounded the same tree from different sides and nearly ran into one another. Ron leapt to the side with a yell just in time to avoid the jaws bearing down on him and flung his wand hard at the animal, striking it between the eyes with an explosion of sparks; the lion yowled and vanished from sight. Ahead of them lay a large, fallen tree that Draco heaved himself over and dropped down low on the other side of. After a moment, Ron tumbled over beside him.

'_Shit_,' Ron squeaked. 'Shit, shit, _shit_!'

Draco could have strangled him. 'Why the hell did you _throw_ your wand at it? You do know it's no use if we don't_ have it,_ don't you? You can't possibly be that much of an idiot!'

'Don't call me an idiot!'

'You're supposed to be a trained combatant!' Draco went on desperately. 'Please, _please _tell me that you have a plan. That perhaps the wand is some sort of magical grenade. That you at least possessed the brains to bring a _spare_.'

'Of course I've got a spare!' Ron snapped, looking indignant. He dug around in his pockets briefly, then gave Draco a look. 'Well, where's _your _wand?'

'Potter has it,' Draco snapped. 'Remember?'

'Oh.' A pause. 'Shit.'

Draco sighed and ran his hand through his hair, pushing the loose strands out of his face—and then made a low, aggrieved noise. 'You complete _arse_,' he snapped at Ron, looking murderous. 'You made me lose my hat!'

: : :

'Well, this is bloody wonderful.'

Draco and Ron had been missing for ten minutes before Hermione started to worry. They had been missing for ten more before Harry had started pacing and wringing his hands through his hair. They'd doubled back twice and Hermione had scanned the jungle with a number of spells, but there were so many living things inside the forest that it was impossible to tell what was human and what wasn't.

'Oh, they'll be all right,' Hermione said, sounding as if she didn't believe a single word. 'Ron's gotten better under pressure since Hogwarts and Malfoy's... well, they'll be all right.'

There was the muted sound of something large and angry roaring, a far off thrashing—Hermione jumped and turned towards the source of the noise, but it was gone as suddenly as it had begun.

'Probably just a bird,' Hermione said quickly. 'Or a—an antelope, or something.'

'An antelope that roars,' Harry said. 'Right.'

'Well—it's probably just a bobcat. Or a baboon. I mean, if it was them, Ron's got a wand, and he'd call for help. He knows what he's doing.'

Harry looked up at the green canopy as they hurried along. 'We hope.'

'We hope,' she agreed, frowning.

: : :

'Right,' Ron said. 'I made you lose your hat. Not the giant cat that tried to eat you, but the guy who saved your ungrateful arse.'

'Eugh,' Draco hissed, ignoring the remark; he was far too distressed by such close proximity to a Weasley to concentrate on arguing. He squirmed in an attempt to relocate himself further away, and in doing so accidentally bumped into Ron's shoulder. Ron shoved him off, and Draco landed on a stick, snapping it.

They both froze, neither daring to move no matter how uncomfortable they were, for several long moments, listening intently.

Somewhere above them, a bird whistled.

Draco exhaled and Ron quietly re-arranged himself in a more comfortable position.

'Idiot.'

'Pillock.'

'Weasel.'

'Ferret.'

'Shh!'

They both froze again. The bird above was still whistling; then, just before Draco started breathing again, it stopped.

A low, rumbling growl sounded somewhere in the trees behind them, so quiet that it was almost like a whispered purr, barely audible under the noise of the wind.

'This is all _your _fault,' Ron muttered.

: : :

'Bugger.'

'What?'

'Oh, nothing,' Hermione said dismissively, picking her way through a painfully prickly bush.

Harry, who opted to hop over the bush, raised his eyebrows.

She sighed, and said, 'I just hope they don't get themselves killed.'

'Honestly,' Harry said, sighing as well, 'I'm more worried that they'll kill each other.'

'Yes, that too,' she admitted. 'Oh, bugger, bugger, _bugger_! I _hate _this place!'

Cursing, she ripped the hem of her blouse free from the bush and sought vengeance by setting the offending shrub on fire.

The charred remains of the bush smoked mournfully. Hermione sighed.

_Ron, you better be okay. _Then, after a moment, she added, _You _both _better be okay. _

: : :

'Shit, shit, _shit_. What do we _do_?'

'Since you so bravely and cleverly cast your wand at the beast, leaving us both unarmed and defenceless?' Draco drawled dramatically, though very, very quietly. 'No bloody idea. You're the Ministry official with combat training here. What do _you _think we should do?'

'The phrase "like a bat out of Hell" comes to mind,' Ron muttered. 'They didn't give us combat training for this sort of situation. We're trained to catch Dark wizards. Fight things with _magic_. Not defend against gigantic tigers out for blood.'

'It's a _lion_, you pillock. But I guess I shouldn't be surprised how utterly useless you are,' he added. Ron growled, but Draco ignored it as he continued, 'And as tempting as running like the Hounds of Hell are on our tail is, this particular Hound is actually a Cat, and as this particular Cat is accustomed to eating things much faster than our sorry little pink arses, that would probably end in one of us being eaten.'

'So long as it's you, I really don't give a damn.'

'How very sweet of you. You seem to be forgetting, however, that I possess the ability to adopt four legs at will, which, unfortunately for you, makes that outcome highly unlikely.'

'I can't fucking believe this,' Ron grumbled, sinking further to the ground. 'I'm lost in a jungle in the middle of Africa, being stalked by a gigantic tiger with _you_, of all people.' He sighed dramatically. 'Now I know what mice feel like.'

'For the umpteenth time, it's a _lion_, you uneducated savage. And—' Draco sat up very suddenly. 'That's _it_.'

'And—what?' said Ron, confused. Then, more urgently, 'Get down!'

Draco lay back down, but the same expression of revelation was plastered on his face.

Ron wondered if Draco had gone insane. Deciding not to get his hopes up, he asked, 'Er, Malfoy?' in an attempt to prompt some sort of explanation.

'Mice.'

Ron raised his eyebrows.

'Mice?'

'Well, _a_ mouse.'

'A _mouse_?' Ron asked, still not following.

'Cat and mouse,' Draco explained.

Ron stared at him.

'Malfoy, are you feeling alright?'

Draco turned his head sideways to look at Ron, who was eyeing the blonde rather warily.

'Weasley, I think I have an idea.'

: : :

'Should we be getting worried yet?'

Harry paused in pushing his way through a tangle of vines to look back at her. 'I thought we were already worried?'

She slashed at the vines with her wand; they broke cleanly apart and flopped to the sides. 'Are we?'

'Well, that depends,' Harry said, wriggling through them. 'Do you mean the "I hope they don't fall into a hole and sprain their ankle" worried, or the "I hope they haven't beaten each other to bloody pulps" worried, or the "I hope they haven't been eaten or murdered by anything yet" worried?'

The last of the vines fell away, and they found themselves facing an open, golden plain with high grass and scattered trees. About five miles straight across, the looming green of the second patch of jungle sat and waited for them.

She looked over at Harry. 'All of the above?'

'Then yes,' he said, stepping out of the jungle and looking back at it, a troubled expression on his face, 'we were already worried.'

: : :

'So when you said, "mouse",' Ron said sardonically, 'you in fact meant, "horse".'

Draco rolled his eyes. 'It's a figure of speech. What is it with you people and technicalities?'

'You're completely insane, you know that?'

'I prefer the term "creative".'

'It's not going to work.'

'It'll work.'

'And if it doesn't?'

'I'll probably be torn limb from limb, promptly devoured, digested, and serve as savannah fertiliser. And as I have been woefully unable to produce an heir, more than likely all of the riches to my name will be seized by the Ministry and everyone will receive very big Christmas bonuses.'

A pause. Then, 'Don't get my hopes up.'

Draco sighed and peered over the fallen log they'd taken refuge behind. He was presented with a wall of green leaves, brown bark and a mass of undergrowth. Somewhere in the leafy abyss, there was a very hungry predator. Considering its size, he was most unnerved that he couldn't see it.

'This isn't going to work,' Ron said again, obviously trying to be helpful. 'This is a very, very bad idea.'

'Do you have a better plan?'

'No,' Ron admitted. 'But you're still bloody mad.'

Taking a very slow, deep breath, Draco ignored the Weasley and cleared his mind as best he could.

This took considerably more effort than usual, considering there was a ruddy huge cat out for blood with his scent somewhere in the jungle behind him. It was embarrassing enough that he was stuck in this situation with _Weasley _of all people—Merlin forbid it had been a gigantic spider after them—but it just had to be a _cat_. Well, damned if he was going to let a stupid feline of all things be the end of him.

Bugger. Draco took another breath. Right. Forget the cat. Think horse.

_Horse_.

'Whenever you're ready, Dr Dolittle,' Ron muttered.

Fully aware of how infantile the action was, Draco rolled his eyes and slapped him on the head. 'Shut up. I need to concentrate.'

'Then hurry up about it,' Ron grumbled, rubbing his forehead.

_Horse_.

The trick to being an Animagus was that practice really did make perfect. The more times you shifted into your animal form, the easier and faster the transformation became. McGonagall's advice had helped Draco's progress considerably, but it still took a very solid chunk of concentration. Even focusing on it completely, it could take him a good three to five seconds to transform, whereas a more experienced Animagus could make the change instantaneously.

Hopefully, that wouldn't give the lion ample time to pounce.

_Horse! Stop thinking about the stupid cat!_

It was a very delicate, complicated process, transfiguring your own body. Draco had to think very hard about what he wanted to become, and how his body would be altered... the lengthening of his limbs and neck, the conversion from bipedal to quadrupedal, the bloating of innards, the strengthening and enlargement of muscles... the worst was easily the shifting of his internal organs; the feeling, if he thought about it, made him decidedly nauseous. There was simply no weirder sensation than that of your oesophagus growing about three feet longer or your heart and lungs swelling to six times their normal size in the span of a few seconds.

'Euergh,' Ron said as he watched. His face was twisted in disgust and he was physically recoiling as far as possible without getting out from behind the log. 'Oh, _yuck_. Doesn't that _hurt_?'

The horse, now fully formed, looked at him. Then it turned and walked away.

Ron blinked.

'Er... Malfoy?' he hissed after it. 'You in there?'

It stopped, looking back at him, and then turning away again. Its tail twitched, once, then twice, and then it lowered its head to the ground and looked for something to eat.

: : :

The horse twitched its tail, slapping its hindquarters. Bloody _flies_. Bloody, buggering, bloody flies. Didn't they have anything better to do than bite him?

And in the _arse_, of all places?

Hmm. This place was odd. There was grass, but it was... different grass. And there were trees, but they were very odd trees. There were birds, too, but not any sort of birds that he had heard before.

And flies. There were far, _far _too many flies. And they were the size of _apples_.

Okay, maybe that was a tiny exaggeration.

Mm, apples.

He lowered his head and sniffed the ground. Nope, no apples. Something sweeter, though... what was that? Ooh, rotten yellow fruit of an unidentified sort. He nibbled it cautiously; no loud noises sounded, no large predators appeared, and it tasted rather good.

Not as good as apples, mind, but the horse was hardly picky.

_Crack_.

The stallion's head snapped up. He sniffed, flaring his nostrils as wide as they would go. His eyes gave him a three hundred degree view around, and turning his head ever-so-slightly covered the other sixty degrees behind him: nothing evil on the radar. He flicked his ears a few times; no more snaps occurred, and there were even a few birds tittering away in the canopy.

Ah, well. He began to lower his head back to the tasty yellow fruit.

Then the wind reversed direction, putting the horse downwind.

The animal's languid manner vanished. Half-rearing and whinnying nervously, the horse's mind reeled, and he pawed the ground while twisting in a tight circle until he'd located the source of Danger.

Source registered, the horse's first instinct was to bolt.

_No_, said a quiet, semi-subconscious voice. _Not yet._

_Why not yet?_ the horse demanded. Now seemed like a very good idea to the horse. In fact, the idea was splendid and brilliant and _why am I not running yet?_

_Wait_, said the annoying voice that was clearly misinformed about the situation.

_Predator! Danger! Death in corporeal form, right there in the bush! _the instinctive prey-animal inside was screaming.

_Not yet._

_Right now!_

_Not yet!_

_It's moving! It's coming!_

_Steady..._

_Run!_

_Just a few more seconds..._

_Bolt!_

_Now!_

: : :

Hermione looked up. 'Did you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

Hermione narrowed her eyes. She was sure she had just heard something... like a loud crash, or the start of an engine, or—

And then somewhere in the not-so-distant jungle, something screamed.

: : :

Ron knew a bad idea when he heard one. Hell, he'd been Harry's best mate for what, ten years? Ten years of close calls with Dark Lords and Evil of All Kinds and you learn to spot very bad ideas when you see them.

He'd told Draco this wouldn't work. But no, the snobby little tit thought he was _clever_. Genius, brave and cunning, too, no doubt.

Oh, bugger, who cared if Malfoy went and got himself killed? Not Ronald Weasley, that was for sure. Didn't care one bit. Sure, he was an active, on-duty Ministry official with the law in his hands, and Draco was, technically, a civilian, albeit a dodgy one—but he was still a _civilian _and Ron was still an _Auror _and if it had been any _other _civilian proposing such madness, Ron would never have agreed to this. But honestly, who in the world would be bothered if Draco Malfoy went and got himself eaten? Ron would probably face an inquiry at work, but no one really cared enough about Malfoy to put any heart into it, so he'd get off. Hermione would probably purse her lips and reprimand him until his ears bled, then proceed not to speak to him for weeks, but she'd get over it. His mum would probably disown him.

At least Harry would be happy, surely. Fred and George would throw him a party.

The moment the horse—Malfoy—had sensed the tiger—_lion_, whatever—Ron had gotten to his feet as instructed, staying crouched low behind the log and ready to bolt.

_'Don't move right away. Wait until it's chased me clear of here. If it sees easier prey—that would be you, by the way—it'll change targets.'_

Ron would have thought this plan was awfully selfless on Draco's part if the prat hadn't added:

_'Not that I'd mind having a clean get-away, but if I come back without you, Potter's bound to assume I've killed you and hidden the body.'_

Slimy, Slytherin bastard.

The horse seemed to be furiously debating with itself; at first, it backed away, and then it turned around, trotted a pace, then circled back. Then it continued to turn in tight circles until Ron was sure it'd fall over from dizziness.

Then, without any warning whatsoever, a lion the size of a Cadillac exploded out of the trees with a roar that went straight through his bones. It landed on the back of the horse, which toppled over, screaming.

Ron stood there, frozen and watching.

_Don't move right away. _

The horse groaned and rolled, trying to right itself; the lion had fallen off when the horse collapsed, but was recovering quickly.

_Wait until it's chased me clear of here. _

The lion lunged for the horse's neck, jaws open and claws outstretched.

_If it sees easier prey—_

Streaks of bright red appeared on the white body, and the horse screamed again.

_—it'll change targets._

Sodding it all, Ron turned away and leapt over the log. His foot caught in a broken branch and he stumbled, but he kept moving, scrambling—just a few more metres, just a few more feet—his wand had to be here, somewhere—right in this ditch, right under this tree—it had to be—it was right around... _here_!

Ron wheeled around, aimed and shouted, '_Stupefy_!'

: : :

Draco had felt pain like this before.

Pain in general was a fairly unusual sensation for him. He'd lived a comfortable life, after all. Minor cuts and bruises that come with childhood aside, there had only been two instances prior to now when Draco had experienced real pain.

First, he was thirteen and had been slashed by a bloodthirsty Hippogriff. Granted, that had been his own fault, but it had bloody hurt nonetheless.

Excluding the accompanying slap that year and, in the years to follow, several fist-to-stomach encounters with Potter and his Disciples, the next instance had been when he was sixteen, when Potter had nearly sliced him in half in a bathroom. Whether this instance counted or not was debatable, though, as shock and loss of blood had rendered Draco unconscious for most of the resulting pain.

If he had remembered any of it, it had felt like this—the searing, stinging, loosening sensation of being sliced open, and the strange feeling of cool air connecting with warm tissue, and the terrifying feeling of hot blood draining out of one's body. Only this time, there were several slashes, and instead of being hurled from a wand, they had a half-ton cat attached to them. A half-ton cat with fangs and curved claws that hung on with intent to kill.

His horse-form screamed. Then it did the only logical thing it could think of: it kicked. It kicked _hard_.

Draco was lucky—the lion had gone for his neck, but the horse had recovered and stood up too quickly, forcing the cat to settle for attacking his flank instead. Wounds here were far less life-threatening, and it put the predator in a very compromising situation.

The kick sent the lion tumbling off him, lengthening the gashes in his hindquarters as it went, refusing to go easily. The extra six-hundred pounds removed, his horse-form did the next logical thing it could think of: it bolted.

_Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run_, his horse-mind chanted at him. _Don't look back. Just run. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run..._

According to the horse, everything would be all right if he just kept running. Draco did not feel the need to argue. He let the horse's instinct take over, and he ran.

: : :

'Harry! Here! I can hear it—'

'So can I,' Harry agreed, coming to her side. The jungle loomed over their heads, and inside, they could hear a commotion. A commotion that sounded like...

_Hooves_.

Oh, thank God, she could hear _hooves_.

A large blur of white erupted out of the foliage half a second later. The horse galloped the few metres to them from the trees, hooves thundering hard on the dry grass. Just when Hermione thought they would be trampled, it picked up its front legs and, with a powerful leap, soared clear over their heads. Ducking beside her with his hands over his head, Harry spun around. Hermione followed suit.

The horse had skidded to a halt just behind them, as if suddenly realising they were there, and turned back to face them. Hermione's mouth fell open; the horse was covered in large, red gashes and was bleeding profusely.

'Oh, my God,' Hermione gasped.

'Malfoy, what—' Harry started to ask, eyes wide.

A loud yowl from behind interrupted him and caused them both to spin back around. Crouched before them, mouth open wide in a snarl, was the biggest cat Hermione had ever seen. And before she even had a split second to think or react, it attacked.

She remembered hearing hooves again; Harry shouting, moving sideways towards her, hitting the ground; a high-pitched whinny, a blood-curdling snarl—something heavy fell on top of her, and then everything went black.

: : :

Two hours later, Harry said, 'I didn't know horses could do _that_.'

'Neither did I,' Draco admitted. He winced as Harry poked the newly-sealed gash on his upper arm with his wand. 'Mind you, I wasn't really in control at that point. The horse in me sort of panicked. Instincts, you know. _Ow_! You're doing that on purpose, you pillock!'

'I am not,' Harry lied, jabbing him again.

The gash was nearly gone now; only a faint pink line remained. It had taken the better part of an hour to patch Draco up, and they'd had to brew a Blood-Replenishing Potion to keep him from passing out again. Draco was still looking paler than usual, and he wobbled a bit woozily any time he tried to stand up.

His mouth seemed to be working fine, though.

'Oh, my poor skin,' he moaned. 'Whatever have I done to deserve such horrible scarring?'

'They won't scar,' Harry told him for about the sixth time since Draco had regained consciousness. 'They're just superficial wounds. Quit complaining.'

'Complaining makes it hurt less. _Ow! Stop_ that!'

'If you're going to complain you should at least have a reason to.'

Draco scowled and threw a bloody rag at him. Seeker reflexes always at the ready, Harry caught it easily and tossed it aside.

'Nice try,' he said, smirking. 'Now quit being such a sissy.'

'_Sissy_? You'd all be cat food without me! _Ow_!' Draco recoiled from the prodding wand like the wounded animal he was. 'I said to stop that!'

'Bloody hell, you're loud,' Ron said, coming out of Hermione's tent. 'I told you to save the potion for after he conked out again. At least he's quiet when he's unconscious.'

Draco growled and opened his mouth to retort, and Harry quickly poked his arm again.

'_Bloody-fucking-ouch_! Will you cut it out? Sadistic pillock—'

'How is she?' Harry asked Ron, ignoring Draco's complaining.

'She's fine. Awake now, too,' Ron added, jabbing his thumb in Draco's direction by way of explanation. 'Bad headache, though.'

'I'd imagine,' Harry said, rubbing his head.

The lone lion, when presented with the three of them, had changed course from the largest prey to the smallest—which happened to be Hermione. As Harry and Hermione had both been caught off guard by the situation and Ron was still running to catch up from behind, the only person that had been in a position to do anything about it had been Draco. Harry had managed to roll out of the chaos long enough to get to his feet and, when Ron arrived, the power of two Stunning Spells had been enough to bring the predator down.

Unfortunately, being knocked aside by a horse and then very nearly trampled by said horse combating a vicious cat of about the same size had resulted in Hermione acquiring a large collection of cuts and bruises and a rather painful headache. Draco's horse-form had sustained double the wounds he'd had upon first entering the clearing, which had bled him well enough that more of the horse was a dark, dirty red than white; and as a result, Draco had proceeded to nearly collapse on top of Hermione before Ron had the wits to pull her out of the way.

Harry was still coming to grips with the fact that Draco—the same pointy, cowardly little twit that had run screaming from the Forbidden Forest in his first year at Hogwarts—had put himself between any of them, Hermione above all, and something that could very well have killed him. Draco could blame the horse's 'instincts' all he wanted, but Harry knew enough about animals to realise that any horse in its right mind would not put itself in potential danger if it was possible to avoid it. Left completely to instinct in that situation, a real horse would have just kept running.

'What do we have to eat?' Draco asked, rubbing his healed arm gingerly.

Ron poked the stick hanging over the fire. 'Fish.'

Draco made a face. 'Yeuch.'

'I thought you liked fish?' Harry asked.

'I do,' Draco said, looking a bit surprised that Harry had remembered that conversation. 'The horse, however, doesn't fancy anything that isn't vegan. And unfortunately, my appetite still seems to siding with it.'

'Apple?' Ron suggested, digging through the bag and holding up the fruit.

'Ooh, apple,' Draco agreed, opening his hands.

Ron threw it to him, deliberately hard. It hit Draco in the chest with a soft _punff_.

'_Ow_. Okay,' Draco said loudly, retrieving the fruit from his lap, 'the next time we're attacked by a rabid, wild animal, I'm taking my four legs and leaving your sorry arses.'

'You know,' Ron said thoughtfully after Draco had shut up long enough to take a bite of his apple, 'if Malfoy'd had his wand, we would have avoided that entire mess.'

'_Mmrf_,' Draco agreed, swallowing. 'Yes, Weasley, that is an _excellent _point.' He turned to look at Harry, apple forgotten. 'So, how many more times do I need to prove that I'm not trying to kill you lot before we remedy that? I'm beginning to feel like a helpless little Muggle.'

'Good,' Harry said, dusting his hands off. 'Maybe you'll start appreciating them more.'

'Or begin realising that they're all inevitably _doomed_,' Draco retorted. 'Even Muggles don't run about this place unarmed. It's not exactly harmless Little Whinging, which is hardly harmless itself considering two Dementors jumped you from an alleyway. Here we have lions and Dark wizards and crazy native Muggles with sticks. And they have those noisy wannabe-wands of theirs—'

'Guns,' Harry supplied.

'—whatever. My point is, they're not _defenceless_. Not as much as a wandless wizard, anyway,' he added pensively.

Harry looked at Ron, who made a combined nod-shrug gesture. Harry sighed and dug into their supply bag, pulling out the long, milky-coloured wand a few moments later.

'_One _mistake, Malfoy—'

'I won't.'

'One threat, one tiny little hex—'

'I said I won't.'

'One thoughtless advance, and I swear—'

'For fucks sakes, Potter, I_ won't.'_

Harry frowned and, slightly reluctantly, handed Draco his wand.

'Thank you kindly.' Draco took the wand and immediately stowed it in his boot. He gingerly stood up and took another large bite of his apple. 'Nowrif yercuse meh, fyam gonshweep.'

: : :

Hermione had said something about proper wizarding tents giving off too powerful a magical aura for them to use them, in case for whatever reason someone ran a trace for odd splurges of unregulated magic anywhere along their route. Who in their right mind would want to trek along this barren, God-forsaken continent was beyond Draco, and he sorely missed the luxury of the tent his parents had always allowed him to use whenever he went away to Quidditch games or summer-term programs.

Their_ tents_—if you could call them that—were two tiny, canvas triangles with paper-thin walls that wobbled unsteadily even in the absence of a breeze. When Hermione had first mentioned she'd only brought two and that they'd have to double up, he'd immediately tried to secure a spot with her, mostly in fear of a midnight assassination attempt from Weasley otherwise. Ron, of course, had turned a violent shade of purple and begun shouting in outrage until Harry said he'd be sharing with Draco for 'safety purposes' and that Hermione would just have to deal with sharing with Ron. Draco had a feeling Harry had more than his well-being in mind from the way he looked at Ron, who had calmed down considerably.

Draco decided not to protest. He'd spent six years living in the same castle as Harry Potter. He'd shared a Quidditch locker room with him for four of those and had spent the last two weeks in his direct company. He could handle a couple more nights.

Inside, it was hotter than it was out. Draco desperately wanted to rid himself of his shirt; he spent about twenty minutes lying on his back, debating it in his head, and was about to give in when a large shadow moved outside the door. The tent flap rustled unnecessarily loudly as one Harry Potter attempted and failed to enter quietly, no doubt trying to avoid waking him. Draco wasn't asleep anyway, so it hardly mattered; but Harry really was hopeless when it came to stealth.

'That's my foot you're stood on,' Draco said tiredly.

Harry moved to the side. 'Oh,' he said, and Draco could see his dark outline against the orange hue from the fire outside glowing through the tent canvas. 'You're awake.'

'Obviously.'

'And as annoying as ever,' Harry noted dully. 'I suppose that means you'll survive.'

'You sound disappointed,' Draco drawled in return.

'Actually,' Harry said through a yawn, collapsing on his sleeping mat beside Draco, 'I'm rather glad.' Draco raised an eyebrow. Harry shrugged. 'You saved her life, you know.'

'Like I told you, instincts,' he said, neutrally. 'I wasn't really in control of what I was doing.'

Harry raised an eyebrow in return. 'Whatever you say, Malfoy.'

'I'm not a hero,' Draco said firmly. 'I'm not _you_, Potter.'

Harry raised his eyebrows. 'Why'd you do it then?'

Draco snorted and rolled over, removing Harry from his vision. 'I hate cats.' He could _feel _Potter raise his eyebrows higher behind him; Draco sighed deeply and closed his eyes. 'I'm not a hero, Potter,' he repeated.

'What would you call it?'

'I just do what I can,' Draco told him, and shrugged.

'So do I,' Harry pointed out, shifting around out of sight—a small, light rustle of fabric hitting the ground sounded behind him; Harry had taken off his shirt.

Draco closed his eyes and pushed his forehead into the thin pillow. He hoped that if he kept still and forced his breathing to remain shallow, Harry would just assume he had fallen asleep.

It must have worked, because he heard Harry sigh a moment later, his back flopping down heavily onto the sleeping mat, muttering, 'And you know, most of the time, that's enough.'

: : :

The next morning, Ron and Hermione went scouting for the quickest path through to the open savannah, leaving Harry and Draco to clean up camp. It didn't take very long; a few waves of his wand had dismantled the tents and smothered the remains of the fire, and Harry managed to shove all their belongings into the small pack Hermione had brought along. It seemed to have an infinite amount of space to spare, despite the fact that it was carrying all of their extra food and water, not to mention clothes and tents for four people.

The two of them had been gone for more than forty minutes when Draco began to suspect that more than finding a suitable route had been on Weasley's agenda. It was hot and dry and dusty, even in the shade of the sparse trees, and he hadn't seen Harry since he'd gone to relieve himself some ten minutes ago. Abandoning the beetle he'd been tormenting out of boredom, Draco made his way out of the trees.

Even so early, the sun was high in the clear sky, shining down with unforgiving force and baking everything within sight, including a shirtless Harry he found lounging on a discarded cloak on the edge of camp. Draco hesitated, and almost returned to the shade before his nerve won out and he continued forward. It was still for a moment and then a sudden breath of air rustled the pages of the book Harry was reading; he dog-eared the page as Draco approached, turning his face into the oncoming wind. His hair was, naturally, all over the place, and Draco could have watched it play in the breeze for hours.

Only he couldn't, because Harry suddenly looked over at him and raised his eyebrows. 'Aren't you hot?'

'No,' Draco lied, leaning back against the tree. He rolled up his sleeves and folded his arms, scuffing the ground with his boot. 'I'm bored.'

Harry didn't look convinced, but didn't call his bluff. 'One close call with death not enough for the week?'

'At least the jungle kept us on our toes.'

'There's more to come,' Harry informed him, lying back on the ground and stretching, the sunlight dancing across his skin. Draco's stomach suffered a sudden, violent ache that he suspected had nothing to do with hunger. 'Since you've got your wand back and all, why don't you make yourself useful and summon me a drink?'

Draco graced him with a squinty glare. 'I hope you burn.'

'I won't,' Harry assured him, eyes closed and grinning. 'I never do. _You_probably will, though.'

'At least I'm not starting to look like a native.'

'Am I?' Draco was exaggerating, of course, but Harry's skin was much darker than the day before. 'Well, at least I'll blend in. You stick out like a sore thumb.'

'Hey, I've got a tan,' Draco said defensively. He pulled up one of the legs of his jeans, exposing the paler flesh of his calf, and held his arm down beside it for comparison. 'See?'

Harry propped himself back up on his elbows and opened his eyes to peer at him, 'Sweet Merlin, you're pale,' he said, shaking his head.

'And at least I don't freckle,' Draco told him, straightening and dropping the leg of his jeans. 'I swear, Weasley's going to get skin cancer down here.'

'Oh, don't be horrible,' Harry chastised.

'As if you'd have me any other way.' Draco smirked smugly for a moment before letting his shoulders droop dramatically. 'I feel like I'm trying to live in an oven. I _hate _the heat. I like wind and snow and thunderstorms. I like _rain_, Potter. Malfoys were not designed for perspiration. I was bred for a much cooler habitat. With fewer gigantic predators. This place is going to _kill me_.'

Harry had already closed his eyes and lain back down. 'Don't worry,' he said, seriously. 'I'll protect you.'

'You know,' Draco said thoughtfully, pulling out his wand, 'I think I _will _fetch you a drink,'

Harry opened his eyes just in time for the jet of water to hit him square in the face.

'Guhspl!' Harry exclaimed, or at least, that's what it sounded like to Draco. Harry quickly rolled to his feet, shielding his face with his hands as Draco laughed, training his wand and sending another unforgivably cold jet of water at him. Well, it _was _funny—or it was until Harry had gotten close enough to lunge at him, and Draco dropped his wand. His back hit the dirt with a solid _thud _and he thought he might have been choking, but it turned out that Harry was just a lot heavier than he looked.

'Oi! Foul play! Christ, you're _soaking—_'

'Yeah?' said Harry, gasping, peering down at him and dripping everywhere. 'Whose fault is _that_, I wonder?'

It was Draco's turn to splutter, twisting and turning his face away, but Harry's hair was sopping like the rest of him and showering water all over Draco's face. Harry's wet flesh gleamed in the bright sunlight, which danced down the curves of his shoulders and upper arms and teased the edge of his face, so from Draco's current point of view it cast an ethereal sort of halo around him. He was soaking and disgruntled but grinning, white teeth flashing through the mess of dark bangs sticking to his face.

Draco stopped staring and suddenly started fighting back, managing to hook one leg around Harry's knee and forcibly roll them over, only to find himself thrown off and pinned down again a moment later. A cloud of dust enveloped them, sticking to every surface that was in the least moist, and Harry's hair now appeared to be a very dusty mop.

'Give it up,' Harry taunted him, struggling with his grin. 'You're such a pansy, Malfoy.'

Draco stopped wriggling long enough to give him a dark look and murmur '_Au contraire_', and then proceeded to shove his knee somewhere delicate. Harry howled and rolled off.

'_Fuck_,' Harry hissed. He was on his back beside Draco, rocking slightly and half-curling in on himself. 'You _dirty git,_ bloody hell—'

'You deserved it,' Draco said fairly, rolling on to his side and admiring his work.

Harry opened one eye to glare at him. 'There's dirt in your hair,' he rasped, still wincing.

'A worthy sacrifice,' Draco declared somewhat woefully.

'And you accuse _me _of foul play.'

'Well, I'm hardly the noble Gryffindor here, am I?' Draco pointed out, rolling to his feet and, after a moment's consideration, offering Harry a hand up. 'Slytherins have their own ways. Doesn't matter how you win, so long as you _do_.'

Harry glared up at him, took the proffered hand, then promptly yanked him back onto the ground. Before Draco could struggle back to his feet, Harry was over him and had him by the biceps, holding him down. 'You were saying?'

Draco stopped cursing and looked up at him; Harry wasn't dripping any more. He was completely filthy, but there was something alive in those eyes that Draco hadn't seen since the last time he matched Harry on the Quidditch pitch. The ache from before spread from Draco's stomach up to his chest and down to his knees, cramping every muscle and vein on the way, almost painfully. Harry was a warm, heavy weight resting on his abdomen and the wind was getting dust in their eyes and Draco wondered a bit wildly how Harry would react if Draco just reached up and—and then Ron came stumbling into the camp in a panic.

He was carrying the limp body of Hermione.

: : :

The _Examination and Evaluation of Questionable Artefacts_ lay forgotten on the dusty cloak outside of camp. Harry had found the book in the Malfoy library, along with many others he'd had Hermione bring along to help them continue searching for any viable hints at the best way to destroy a Horcrux. Draco had heard him muttering late at night, _know it works, but it's too dangerous; where the hell am I supposed to find one of those; _and _yeah, right, I can see the Ministry approving _that _request_. Draco had never asked what any of these possible methods were, not because he wasn't curious, but because whenever someone mentioned Horcruxes around Harry, he was suddenly a lot less pleasant to be around. Not that he was ever _pleasant _to be around, but Draco didn't want to spend any more time thinking about that, because he was worried where his brain was going with it.

Hermione rolled over with a small groan, the sheet covering her twisting around her as she turned; her body appeared horribly frail and warped under the thin fabric. Her face and neck were covered in sweat despite the cool evening breeze; the straps of the tank top she wore were soaked and limp, dropping over her shoulders. She groaned again, louder this time, wincing and drawing her eyebrows together to form harsh lines across her forehead.

Ron was fast asleep in the next tent. He'd come back babbling complete nonsense in his panic, thinking he'd let her die, until Harry had the sense to take him by the shoulders and shout at him that she was still breathing, so will you please calm the fuck down. Ron hadn't been exactly helpful after that, but at least he'd remembered to breathe himself and filled them in the best he could.

He and Hermione had headed north, looking for a suitable way around the savannah that didn't involve walking too far without any shade. They had headed north-east, close to the lake, through a small tangle of sparse trees. Hermione had wanted to make sure it was solid, uninhabited ground, not a hidden marsh or, worse yet, the breeding grounds of something nasty, before dragging all four of them and their belongings through it. She'd sent Ron around the west side and gone east herself, and by the time Ron found her again, she was wandering aimlessly and, as far as he could tell, asleep.

'She just kept muttering, and trying to go back _in_,' he stammered, wringing his hands. 'She wouldn't even _look _at me, it was like I wasn't even_ there_—and then she just sort of fell over, and I couldn't get her to wake up again.'

Draco suspected that Harry had snuck something into the tea he'd forced Ron to drink, because not ten minutes later Ron passed out where he was sitting, at her beside. Harry had dragged him back to the other tent at that point, and was organising something to eat, leaving Draco to watch over her.

And Draco was watching very, very carefully. There was something familiar about her behaviour, but he couldn't place it. The way she moved, the noises she made, the contortions of her face…

Hermione shook her head vigorously in her sleep, mumbling, her lips trying and failing to form coherent words. She rolled onto her back again, arching her spine as if in some horrible pain, before collapsing and rolling back on to her side, facing him again. Her hair, usually bushy and overbearing, lay limp and lifeless around her head, spilling off the bedside. Even now, her eyes were closed; she was still conscious, but unaware of her surroundings. She couldn't be dreaming, because she wasn't asleep.

There was only one other explanation: she was hallucinating.

Draco knew that hallucinations were different from dreams in several ways. For one, dreams were fabricated by the mind, using information from a person's experiences, whereas an external influence was always the source of a hallucination. Wizards frequently used various drugs and potions to achieve a hallucinative state, but hallucinogens, in both recreational and medical situations, always carried dangerous possibilities; like any controlled substance, they could have damaging effects, or even prove fatal.

When a hallucination became too intense, however… the mind was powerless to end it, unable to relinquish control, usually rendering the person in question indefinitely, sometimes irreversibly, consciously comatose.

Hermione gasped loudly, stretching out an arm in front of her, nearly touching him. Draco reached out and touched her hand, which curled its fingers weakly around his own. Her skin was warm and clammy, her grip extremely light. Standing up, he moved to the chair beside her bed slowly, careful not to dislodge her hand.

She seemed somewhat comforted by the touch, and rolled onto her back again. Her head was still turning from side to side, slowly but restlessly, brow still drawn harshly together. He could hear her mumbling again, but now he could almost make out actual words; her hand was still curled around his as he leaned closer, trying to make sense of it.

'Closer… almost… no…' she whispered, her head turning again. 'No, no… _go back_… towards the white… I have to… I can't…'

She shuddered violently, and the grip on his hand tightened.

'The flowers,' she murmured. Her voice was hoarse and dry. 'So pretty…'

_Flowers_?

It was one of those times when he knew that a word held strong significance—he knew it—he just couldn't place his finger on why.

His mind buzzed blankly for a few moments. Hermione's hand went limp again, releasing his fingers, and she rolled over, putting her back to him. Draco didn't notice. He was thinking furiously, repeating her words in his head.

_Closer… _to what? _Go back…_ why? _Towards the white…_ the white what?

_Flowers_.

White flowers?

He sat there numbly, staring.

'Holy _shit_,' he said, before standing and bolting out of the tent. '_Potter_!'

: : :

'Veh-vih-data—what?'

Ron was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, blinking blearily in the light of the fire. Harry was sitting beside him, staring at the flames while Draco paced around it.

'_Viduata levamentum_,' Draco repeated firmly. 'Vih-_dwa_ta, Weasley. It's more commonly known as "Widow's Comfort".'

'Uh-huh,' said Ron, yawning and rolling his eyes. 'But you just said it's extinct.'

'I said it's _supposed _to be extinct.'

'I don't remember that from Herbology,' Ron said, still unconvinced.

'You wouldn't, because we didn't learn about it in Herbology, we learned about it in _Potions_. Antidotes and antiserums, fifth year, for O.W.L. preps—Widow's Comfort was one of only three species of magical plants driven to extinction by excessive harvesting for potion making. It was one of the three _essay _topics—for fucks sakes, Weasley, how did you even _pass _the exam?'

Harry was looking thoughtful, with his elbows propped up on his knees and his chin resting on his hands. 'Are you sure?' he asked.

'Positive,' Draco said. 'Widow's Comfort was rare to begin with, and used extensively in mind-altering potions. It grew only in hot, arid environments, and by the mid 1900s it had been twenty years since anyone had reported a wild crop. Since it was labelled a Class A Non-Tradable Substance, it was illegal to grow it privately, and without the potions on the market it was assumed to be extinct.'

'There's got to be hundreds of toxic plants, though,' Ron said reasonably. 'How do you know that it's this plant?'

'Because no other plant on record has the ability to induce hallucinations without being consumed,' Draco explained. 'That's why it was so highly coveted. Look, you've scanned her for Dark Magic, we've tested her for alien substances, and she came up clean, so she couldn't have been cursed or ingested anything strange. Anyway, I wouldn't think her the type to walk around an unfamiliar place popping daisies in her mouth to see what they taste like. Widow's Comfort doesn't need to be eaten, or even touched… all you have to do is get a tiny, accidental whiff and you've bought a one-way ticket to Wonderland.'

Ron was still eyeing Draco with suspicion. 'And how is it that you just _happen _to remember all of this?'

Sounding very exasperated, Draco said, 'I _studied_, Weasley.'

Harry decided not to point out to Draco how very Hermione-like this ability to retain detailed information was. Instead, he asked, 'Okay, so supposing it is this Widow's flower, how are we supposed to cure it?'

Draco shrugged. 'Simple antidote should do it,' he said.

'_Should _do it?'

'Well, yes, if it is indeed the _Viduata_.'

'And if it's not?'

'Well, it's like any antidote,' Draco continued. 'The cure requires part of the poison. Problem is, if you guess the wrong poison and administer an antidote for it, especially to an already ill patient, you could… well, there's always that risk.'

'So what you're saying,' Ron rephrased, 'is that if you're wrong, we could kill her.'

'Well, administering the wrong antidote will only produce the same results as doing nothing,' Draco said defensively. 'So if you're going to take that perspective, you could say if I'm _not _wrong, it _won't_ kill her.'

Ron looked at Harry, worry and suspicion waging a fierce battle in his eyes. Harry understood how he was feeling, that Draco wasn't to be fully trusted. Even after the episode with the lion, even after Draco had risked his own hide for Hermione once already, the idea of Draco brewing something to be fed to her was a bit hard to swallow. Granted, Harry knew he wouldn't kill her on purpose, but the Draco he remembered from school certainly wouldn't volunteer to help her, either.

'Why?' Ron said, voicing his thoughts. 'Why would you want to help her?'

Draco gave him a very ugly look. 'She's helped me,' he said, simply. 'But by all means, let her rot, I couldn't care less.'

Ron bared his teeth but Harry intervened before he could go for Draco's throat. 'This antidote,' he said quickly. 'You know how to brew it?'

'I did get an "E" in Potions, six years running,' Draco boasted smugly.

Harry looked at Ron, who had finally abandoned glaring at Draco and had stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. Harry caught his eye and he shrugged, obviously too torn to make a decision either way. Trust Malfoy to save Hermione, or trust him to let her die?

_I just do what I can._

Harry had the vivid, tangible image of a rearing white horse, nostrils flared and forelegs raised, bloody and terrified and standing its ground just the same.

'What do you need?' Harry asked. Draco raised his eyebrows, and made a list.

: : :

The most dangerous part of making the antidote was, naturally, gathering a sample of the poison itself. Draco was able to protect himself well enough with a Bubble-Head Charm, and Ron's directions for retracing Hermione's steps were simple enough to follow, but it still did not make the short, thin bed of bright white flowers spread across the undergrowth any easier to approach.

He would have to brew the potion here, of course; carrying the unprocessed plant back to camp would just put Ron and Harry in the same danger, and anyway, he had everything he needed with him: a small cauldron, his wand, a travel-sized collection of potions ingredients, and the _Viduata levamentum_ itself. Ron still did not seem to trust Draco at all, and probably would have accompanied him to make sure he was brewing antidote and not poison, had he been able to force himself leave Hermione's side.

It took a little under an hour to brew the potion and allow it to ripen. Once the _Viduata _had been added to the antidote, the fumes could be inhaled safely, and Draco levitated the cauldron back to camp with him.

Harry was sitting by the fire, prodding the unfortunate logs with a spare stick when Draco returned. He stood up quickly, nearly tripping over the woodpile as he hurried over. 'Well?' he demanded.

Draco directed the floating cauldron towards him. 'It's ready.'

'So, we just…' Harry took the cauldron in one hand and rubbed the back of his neck with the other, '…have her drink it, then?'

'If you want it to take effect sometime tomorrow morning, when the poison will already have killed her, sure,' Draco said, deadpan. 'No, you idiot, you'll need to administer it directly into the bloodstream.'

Harry went slightly pale. 'Er. How—'

'Well, generally people prefer to use a syringe, but you could try the vampire approach if you like—'

'We don't have a syringe!'

Draco raised his eyebrows. 'Oh, don't we? Check her bag.'

Harry frowned. 'How would you know—'

'Because she's not an idiot,' Draco admitted grudgingly. 'Though I can't say the same for the company she keeps. The longer you stand there and gawk at me, Potter, the worse her chances become.'

Harry looked confused and gave a little start, jogged from whatever he had been considering by the more immediate problem of one of his best friends dying. He moved towards the tent and hesitated outside of it, looking over his shoulder. 'Right,' he said, awkwardly. 'Um. Look—'

'Tick-tock, Potter,' Draco reminded him.

Harry stopped, closed his mouth, and nodded. He turned away and went inside. Draco decided to take over Harry's poking-stick, retrieving it from the ground and assaulting the fire with it. The sparks were fun to watch in the darkening sky, and he was able to open up a sizeable gap in the logs to expose the hot coals and watch the sparks dance against the darkening sky.

Harry didn't return for the better part of twenty minutes; Ron still had not left the tent. He looked torn between relief and shock. 'She's stirring,' he said.

'You sound surprised,' said Draco, eyes still on the fire.

'I'm not.' Harry had come down to sit beside him, elbows propped up on knees in front of him. 'Ron was,' he said after a moment.

'Mm,' Draco said, shoving at the logs viciously.

'I think…' Harry said finally, 'it's just, you know, really hard for him to forget how you were at school.'

'He started it,' Draco reminded him sourly.

'Well, technically, I'd say your fathers started it,' Harry said fairly. 'It's not that he doesn't _want _to trust you. It's just like he _can't_comprehend you doing anything decent. At all.'

'If you are trying to win me over for Weasley—'

'I'm not,' Harry interrupted. 'It's not like I find it easy to trust you, either.'

Draco narrowed his eyes, caught off guard by the fact that the comment had actually stung when it really shouldn't have. Before he could reply, though, the flap of the tent opened and Ron stepped out. He shot an accusatory look at Draco before turning his gaze to the ground, and joined them by the fire.

'How's she doing?' Harry asked.

'All right, I think,' Ron said, wavering on his feet. 'She's, um, taking a bath.'

It took a few moments of silence before Draco realised that Ron was looking down at him, and Harry at Ron, both with expectant expressions on their faces. 'What?' he demanded.

Ron narrowed his eyes, and Harry made an impatient noise in his throat. Draco realised what was going on just as Ron opened his mouth and began, 'Look, Malfoy, I'm—'

'Don't—' Draco warned.

'—what?'

'_Don't,_' Draco repeated, standing and snarling. 'Don't you fucking dare tell me you're sorry. Because _I'm_ not.'

'What the hell is your problem?' Ron demanded. 'Why can't you just—'

'Because, Weasley, if it had been you or any one of your fucking family, I would have let them rot!'

Ron made a sudden movement and shoved him, hard, and Draco stumbled backwards over the log he and Harry had been sharing. Harry stood up just as Draco caught himself from falling, stepping between them, but Draco shoved him aside. 'I can take care of myself, Potter!'

'We'll see about that,' Ron snarled.

Draco saw it at the same instant Harry did; his expression twisted with fury, Ron went for his wand, as did Harry a moment later. Draco gritted his teeth and concentrated, and then launched himself forward with all four legs, slamming his chest into Ron's.

Caught off guard, Ron fell backwards onto his arse, thoroughly dazed, his wand lost to the dusty ground. Harry stumbled out of the way just in time to avoid the shove, wand trained on Draco as he reverted to his human form. Draco ignored Harry and turned his wand on Ron, who was still coughing up dust.

'If you want to play who's the bigger wizard here, Weasley,' Draco said, voice deathly low, 'you are going to _lose_.'

'Lower your wand, Malfoy,' Harry said, stepping in front of Ron.

Draco's eyes snapped up to him. 'He drew first,' he growled. 'Piss _off_, Potter.'

'I don't care,' Harry said, wand still held steady. 'You're both being idiots, and now he's unarmed. Lower your wand.'

Ron was glaring up at him from the ground, his hair and thickly freckled face approximately the same colour as the red soil, so his blue eyes stood out clear in the fading light. Draco had taken the pushing, the pulling, the outright _bullying _for weeks, but now that he had his wand—

'Draco.' The use of his given name got through to him, forcing his attention back to Harry, who looked less angry than Draco would have expected, though his wand was still pointed directly at Draco's chest. 'Don't do this. Just let it go already—'

'Harry, just Stun the—' Ron interrupted.

'_—both _of you,' Harry said firmly. 'Just fucking let it go.'

His eyes never left Draco, green and deep as the jungle around them and just as intense.

Draco lowered his wand, and Harry hesitated a moment before, slowly, doing the same, then turning to offer Ron a hand up. Ron picked up his wand and opened his mouth, anger written all over his face, but Harry cut him off before he could get going.

'Just drop it, already,' he said tiredly, sitting back down by the fire. 'As if we don't have enough to worry about, without you two trying to kill each other.'

Ron closed his mouth and looked at Draco, eyes blazing. Draco didn't give him the satisfaction of holding his gaze. 'I'm going for a walk,' he decided aloud.

'Yeah, all right,' Harry said, surprising Draco—he'd been expecting a protest. 'Just don't go too far.'

: : :

Hermione did not know how long she had lain there after Ron had left, staring at the canvas roof of the tent. She had heard raised voices outside, but had been too sore to do anything about it; she trusted Ron and Harry to handle themselves more these days—and sure enough, within minutes the camp had fallen quiet again, and Hermione let herself sink further into the cool water. The tub wasn't anything fancy, but it was certainly impressive when you took into account that Draco had Transfigured it from a porcelain mug.

The shadowed canvas ceiling fluttered gently above her as she soaked and stewed, too tired to do anything except lie still and breathe and let the coolness of the water support her. But the magic could not be maintained for long and slowly, she sat up, using the edge of the tub to hoist herself into a standing position. Her body was still very sore and tender; not from the poison, but from lying in bed for hours while under its effects. The water, which had been cool, was now lukewarm and clung uncomfortably to her skin.

A light breeze fluttered under the wall of the tent, chilling her. Feet still in the tub, she reached for the sheet on the small chair to towel herself off with. Just as her fingers closed around the fabric, someone entered through the flap.

'Sorry,' he muttered swiftly, courteously turning away from her nakedness as she hastily covered herself up with the sheet, stepping out of the bath. 'Weasley said—'

'It's all right,' she said quickly. 'Ron told me you'd be in to check for side effects. I just lost track of time.'

Hermione sat on the edge of the chair, wrapped from collarbone to toe in several layers of sheet. Her hair was still sopping wet and clung to the skin between her shoulder blades, soaking the back of her makeshift towel. Draco slowly turned back to look at her, as if half-expecting her to still be standing nude in the tub. He looked, if anything, embarrassed—it was a strange look on him, and it made her smile slightly.

'Sorry,' he said again, slightly pink.

'I'm sure you've seen it all before,' she said. Her sarcasm seemed to relax him a little. 'And I'm feeling much better, thanks to you.'

Jamming his hands into his pockets, Draco looked her over briefly. 'You're not as pale, either,' he said after a moment. 'How's your head?'

'Clear,' she said automatically. He raised an eyebrow, and she suddenly realised her answer didn't make a lot of sense. 'Erm... when I was asleep, everything was foggy,' she elaborated. 'I mean, I can remember it all, but it felt like I was wandering in a sauna. The air was so thick, it was like—'

'A fog,' Draco finished for her, nodding. 'Fumes that resemble the fragrance of the flower, so you can smell it but you can't see anything, so you keep searching and searching… and don't want to wake up until you've found it.'

'Yes,' she confirmed. 'But how did you know—'

'I did my O.W.L. project on hallucinogens,' he said, tilting his head. 'Widow's Comfort was responsible for more black market trade and overdose-induced fatalities than any other substance in wizarding history. Ten feet of parchment on a subject makes it pretty hard to forget. You're not the only person that did their homework, you know.'

'Oh,' she said, looking at her knees.

'Anyway,' he went on, 'probably best that you check in at a hospital as soon as possible. Just because you're feeling better doesn't mean the worst is over, even with the antidote. Since you only inhaled it, though, what I gave you should be enough…' He paused, shifting his weight to the other leg. 'Weasley says he's going to take you back to St. Mungo's in the morning if you're feeling up to it.'

'What about you and Harry?'

'Still going to Gonder.'

'Will you two be all right on your own?' she asked.

She could hear his clothing ruffle, as if he'd shrugged. 'I don't see why not. Weasley's brother is still meeting us there, so we won't be alone for long. Anyway,' he continued quickly, changing the subject, 'when you're at St. Mungo's, make sure that after you're treated you have the medical records destroyed. We don't want anyone being able to find out where you were.'

She nodded slowly, and then heard him turn and lift the flap to leave.

'Wait,' she said, still staring at her knees.

Draco paused, holding the flap open, looking back at her.

'Ron said—nobody knew what to do—I mean, if you hadn't—' she stopped herself mid-ramble and looked up at him. She knew what she was trying to say, but putting it into words was a lot more difficult than she'd imagined. She settled for the simplified version. 'Thank you,' she said softly. 'This is the third time you've saved my life, you know.'

Draco was watching her with impassive grey eyes; they were flickering, like two tiny bright mirrors in the darkness. After a moment, he grinned that snarky, no-good smirk he got when, Hermione had come to learn, he was trying to cover up something else.

'Third time's the charm,' he said casually. 'Goodnight.'

He left. Hermione watched his shadow pass across her tent and disappear beyond the firelight. The flap fluttered restlessly against the gentle breeze in his wake.

She sighed heavily. 'Goodnight, Draco.'

: : :

Ron had promised, under pain of death and no more unannounced nocturnal visits to her home ever again, to go home and get some rest once Hermione had been admitted to St Mungo's. He'd left while the Healer on duty ushered her into a private room and began casting detection spells all over her, firing away with questions and taking notes on her clipboard.

'It was administered directly into the bloodstream?' the Healer said, surprised and pausing in her spell casting. 'Really? Well, in that case, we're going to need a sample of that, too. Now, how this works is—'

'I'm a Muggle-born,' Hermione said, smiling tiredly. 'And it's all right, I don't mind.'

The Healer looked immensely relieved that she would not have to explain the concept of a syringe and took a small amount of her blood, promising to have the results by morning. She took Hermione to a small, private room with a bed and made sure she was comfortable before leaving her for the night.

Hermione nodded off and didn't wake until mid-afternoon, when another Healer came sweeping into the room, dressed in the standard lime green robes with a clipboard in one hand and a wand in the other. She had short, curly hair the colour of copper and a pleasant, heart-shaped face.

'Miss Granger?' she asked, adjusting her glasses with a glance at the clipboard. Hermione nodded and the Healer smiled. 'Good morning, my name is Lindsay Peadle. How are you feeling today?'

'Fine,' Hermione said truthfully. 'Excellent, actually. What is—'

'It's all good news, I assure you,' Lindsay said promptly, smiling again. 'Results came back clean, there's not a trace of any toxin left in your system; whoever brewed your antidote did a _very _good job from what we can tell, and the tests indicate that you don't even need to worry about any harm to the baby.'

'Oh, good,' Hermione said in relief.

And then, for approximately the next three seconds—or days—her brain, heart, and lungs all froze at once.

In a small, wary voice, she repeated, '_Baby_?'

'Yes,' Lindsay said pleasantly, then at the dumbstruck look on her patient's face, blinked. 'Oh—you didn't know? Well, in that case, congratulations.'

Hermione's vision swam slightly; the lights in the room slurred and her head suddenly felt very light. She fell backwards onto the mattress, unconscious, without another word.

The nurse blinked again, frowning slightly. 'Or not.'

: : :


	11. Chapter Ten: Laugh, I Nearly Died

**A/N**: This is the most recent chapter of _Bad Faith_ - subsequent chapters will take a lot longer to update than the past nine chapters, but they will some steadily. Also, keep in mind, you can find this fic through my LJ community as well (listed as my website). The only difference is, the LJ comm allows me to post the pictures I draw for the story :D

Chapter Ten**  
Laugh, I Nearly Died**

_I've been to Africa,  
looking for my soul  
I'm lost in the wilderness,  
so far from home_

: : : : :

Draco kicked the door to the Cabinet closed, and swore.

He was getting _nowhere_. May was slipping past one day at a time, June drawing ever closer. This was his last chance, and he was running out of time. He was no closer to success than he had been in September. How could he have been so—so _stupid_, so bloody stupid, as to think he could do this? With so much at stake?

But what choice had he had? With his father in prison, and his mother alone, unprotected... he was the only one who could—and what could he have done? Refused? Refused _Him?_ The idea was laughable.

He stopped at the door, his ear pressed against the gap, and listened. Crabbe had absolutely refused to help him unless he disclosed further details and Goyle, while loyal to the end, was stuck in detention with McGonagall. He had to be careful; Goyle said Potter had been sniffing around the seventh-floor corridor so much lately that it could hardly be called coincidence any more. The bastard _knew_...

Holding his breath, Draco edged the door open silently. He paused, still listening at the crack, unable to trust his eyes—he knew Potter had an invisibility cloak, but that couldn't muffle the sounds of breathing and shifting feet. He waited a full five minutes and, wand drawn just in case, stepped out into the corridor, closing the door quickly behind him.

The corridor was empty. Surely, if Potter were here, even invisible, he would have confronted Draco by now. Satisfied, Draco stowed his wand inside his robes, glancing behind him to make sure the door of the Room had vanished seamlessly.

Taking the corridor at a brisk pace, Draco noticed his hands were shaking. He paused, staring at them; they were filthy with the finish from the Cabinet and slightly pink in several places where splinters had become deeply lodged—stowing them in his pockets, he hurtled down one flight of stairs to the sixth floor and took a quick right, dashing into the boys' bathroom. He turned on the tap, his slick fingers fumbling slightly, then rested both hands, still shaking, underneath the freezing water.

He had to stay calm. He couldn't succumb to this—it didn't help, it didn't do anything except exhaust him. He shouldn't have even come in here, she'd be along soon enough, and all she did was make it worse...

He scrubbed his hands clean, turned off the tap and went to work on the splinters. He could barely feel the pain, it seemed to be coming from far away... He scrabbled desperately at a particularly difficult splinter, lodged deeply in the underside of a finger-joint, his breaths coming unevenly, his ears ringing—

'You really should let me help you...'

Draco did not look up, but pressed further into the joint of his finger with his nails. Myrtle, indignant at being ignored, hiccoughed from the cubicles.

'It's all right... it's not the end of the world...'

Draco let out a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. He couldn't focus; his eyes were stinging. He gripped the sink to keep his hands from shaking.

'Don't,' she crooned, her throaty voice echoing around the bathroom. 'Don't... tell me what's wrong... I can help you...'

'No one can help me,' he hissed, fighting to keep his voice from shaking like the rest of him. 'I can't do it... I can't... it won't work... and unless I do it soon... he says he'll kill me...'

Draco gasped for breath, and swallowed thickly. Looking up, his vision blurred, he saw the door behind him was being held open, light from the hall spilling in. Held open by—

Draco wheeled around and drew his wand in one movement, sending the first hex that came to his mind, unspoken, at where Potter stood in the doorway. A lamp shattered, and Potter dived sideways, the door swinging shut behind him. He saw Potter's wand move—

_Protego!_ Draco felt the jinx connect with his shield, and wondered wildly when Potter had learned to cast spells non-verbally. He needed to end this quickly, to distract Potter and get out of here—but he wanted nothing more than to hurt Potter as much as he could...

'No! No! Stop it!' Moaning Myrtle screeched, her voice echoing around the room. 'Stop! STOP!'

Malfoy's next curse missed Potter by a fraction of an inch—the bin behind him exploded. Potter's retaliation rebounded off the wall behind Draco, who had dodged just in time, and cracked a cistern; Myrtle screamed loudly as water flooded the floor beneath her.

Draco snarled, raising his wand, a year's worth of fear, anger, pain and desperation welling up inside of him, 'Cruci—'

'_Sectumsempra_!'

Draco's world went red.

A dull thud, a shallow splash, a scream... they echoed around his head. He didn't even realise he had fallen until Potter, voice inaudible above Myrtle's screaming, collapsed by his side on his knees. Draco's chest and stomach heaved, the pain like a million tiny, white-hot needles, swimming through his bloodstream, straight into his brain. He couldn't breathe. Cold air and water were stabbing at hot muscle and flesh, Potter was above him, hands twisted in his hair, looking terrified and utterly lost. Draco's ears were full of water, a distant rushing, roaring, the beating of his own heart, an erratic, shuddering beat...

The dim light in the bathroom grew dimmer. Draco blinked, and a dark blob obstructed his view. Myrtle's distant screams still echoed distantly, overpowered by the thundering, shuddering of his heartbeat, which was growing quieter... and steadier. Draco didn't dare try to breathe, it hurt too much—but his body gave in, his diaphragm contracting, and Draco coughed wetly as air swept into lungs that were whole again.

Someone was moving him. His hands closed vice-like against whoever it was, terrified of the pain, but the pain did not come... his neck, chest and stomach ached terribly, but the white-hot, stabbing pain was gone.

A voice was drifting in and out of his range of hearing. ' ...certain amount of scarring...' Draco coughed again, wavering—dizzied by the sudden uprightness, his already blurry vision making the room swim. '...dittany immediately... come.'

Draco went, half-awake, clinging to his saviour, still unable to make any sense of the situation. The halls were a dark blur, and how he navigated the stairs was beyond him. His extremities seemed to be on autopilot.

The doors to the Hospital Wing opened like the gates of Heaven; blinding, white light seared through the doorway, temporarily blinding him. The stout figure of Madam Pomfrey appeared at his unadorned side.

'Severus? What is it? Good heavens!'

'Dittany,' Snape said. 'Quickly.'

Madam Pomfrey did not argue but immediately bustled away. Snape took Draco to the nearest bed, and helped him into it. Draco collapsed gratefully, his entire body aching. He felt like he'd been split in two, and said so.

Snape did not smile, but brushed Draco's hair away from his face, and forced him to lie on his back. 'I know it hurts,' he said quietly, 'but be grateful you are alive to feel pain. I am going to remove your robes.'

This did not take long, as there was not much left of Draco's robes or shirt. Snape cut along what fabric remained with his wand, clearing Draco's neck down to his navel just as Madam Pomfrey returned.

'Oh, my word...' she whispered, eyeing the wound for a moment, before using her wand to evenly apply the Essence of Dittany. Draco could feel it, cold against his skin, spreading from under his jaw to well past his navel.

'He'll be all right,' she said finally, having applied several thick layers of dittany. 'But I'm afraid there'll be scarring... Severus, how did this happen?'

Draco could not focus well enough to see Snape's expression, but his voice was like ice. 'I need to go. I will be back to check on him shortly. See that the Headmaster is informed.'

Snape swept from the room. Draco, still trying to make sense through the pain, tried to reach out. Madam Pomfrey quickly held his arm down by the wrist. 'Try not to move, the wound is still healing. And don't talk,' she admonished, as Draco hissed through clenched teeth. 'I'll bring you something for the pain.'

Draco did not know how long he lay there, only that he could not sleep. The concoction he'd been given helped somewhat, making the pain fade to a distant, dull ache that pulsed in time with his heartbeat and breathing. It also made his limbs feel heavy, as if someone had laid sandbags over his body; he suspected this was to dissuade him from moving. At regular intervals, Madam Pomfrey would return to his bedside to clean the wound and re-apply the dittany. His vision slowly returned to normal, but his eyes, still raw and swollen, ached if he opened them more than a fraction.

There was a knock at the door, and Draco's eyes flew open, causing him to wince. Madam Pomfrey closed the curtains around his bed with a flick of her wand before answering it. He heard a whispered conversation, Snape's deep baritone interspersed with the dulcet tones of the Headmaster. He tried to focus on the words as they echoed around the stone walls, but only made sense of one of them, clipped and snarled rather loudly by Snape: '_Potter_.'

A few minutes later, the curtains were pulled aside, and Draco quickly closed his eyes, feigning sleep. A cool, clammy hand touched his forehead.

'He's running a fever,' he heard Snape say. 'How is the wound healing?'

'Slowly,' answered Pomfrey. 'But steadily. He'll have to be confined to bed for a week, at least.'

There was a pause before Dumbledore asked, 'And lasting damage?'

'It's hard to say, Headmaster. With Dark magic it's never easy to tell... the wound was pretty deep, from what I understand...'

'It nearly grazed his spine,' Snape confirmed, and Draco fought to keep his breathing even. 'If I hadn't been nearby... hadn't got there when I did...'

He didn't need to say anything more.

'Then let us be grateful you did,' Dumbledore said finally, sounding more grave than Draco had ever heard him. There was a short pause before Dumbledore continued, 'As to Mr Potter, I assume you have taken appropriate action?'

'Short of _expulsion_,' Snape snapped, 'which I still deem most appropriate. He will be seeing me in detention every Saturday for the rest of the term.'

'That will do,' Dumbledore said. 'Poppy, please alert me to any developments with Mr Malfoy. I will see that his parents are notified. Severus, if you will join me in my office…'

The sounds of footsteps died away. Pomfrey checked his wound again and, apparently finding nothing further to do, covered his chest in light bandages before closing the curtains and finally leaving him alone.

: : : : :

_...and the serpent was craftier than any animal of the field..._  
- Genesis 3:1

: : :

Harry slept restlessly. The night was hot, yet he had broken out in a cold sweat, twisting under non-existent sheets. Across from him, Draco slept on, quiet and comatose. Harry flipped over in his sleep, closed eyes to the dark roof of the tent, trapped inside his mind.

Wherever he was in his dream, it was black. Or more correctly, there was an absence of any light. He felt rather than saw a change in the air around him; and then a flash of razor-like white teeth, a whisper of movement in the depthless void, a wink of narrow, golden eyes.

'Bring him to me alive,' he murmured, the hissed words rolling off his tongue.

A sibilant growl answered him. A pair of eyes stopped, and stared. No matter how long he looked, he could not distinguish a shape in the abyss.

'In return,' he continued, 'I will release you.'

The golden eyes narrowed. Fangs bared, the creatures lunged.

Harry woke up hissing.

: : :

Something very cold and wet was dabbing her forehead. It was clammy and uncomfortable, and Hermione furrowed her brow and groaned. 'Mmumph.'

'Come on, dear,' a female voice cooed. 'It's not the end of the world.' Hermione opened her eyes. Lindsay Peadle was peering down at her like a worried mother, moist towel in hand. 'It's just a baby.'

Hermione blinked, experiencing a very strong whiff of déjà vu. She sat up very quickly, nearly smacking into the Healer.

'Baby!' she cried.

'Yes, baby,' Lindsay confirmed, patting Hermione's forehead dry with a fresh towel. 'Near three months along, roundabout.' Then, sounding more sympathetic as Hermione drew close to tears, she continued, 'You didn't notice the painters hadn't been around?'

'I...' Lindsay waited patiently for Hermione to continue, but she just silently gaped for a few moments before closing her mouth, unable to find the words.

'It isn't the end of the world,' Lindsay said again, more gently this time.

Hermione closed her eyes, willing herself to relax. She unclenched her hands, which had been tightly fisted in the sheets, smoothing out the covers as she took several deep breaths. It's okay, she thought firmly. She's right. It's not the end of the world. It's just a baby... just a baby...

Just a baby. Right.

Well, bugger this for a lark.

'This is a bit personal, but I feel the need to ask,' Lindsay said quietly. 'Do you know who the father is?'

And of course, fate be damned, that was the exact moment Ron chose to walk through the door.

'Hey,' he said in a voice profoundly too cheerful for Hermione's current tastes. 'Good morning, sunshine.' He didn't appear to have caught their conversation, and Hermione managed to breathe again. Ron frowned when she didn't answer, however. 'You look a bit pale,' he observed. 'Did they find anything―'

'No!' Hermione nearly shouted before Lindsay could answer him.

'Oh.' Ron smiled at her as he stopped beside the bed and kissed her lightly on the forehead, then looked at the Healer. 'She's good to go, then?'

Lindsay glanced between them―Ron, happy, relieved, and fairly handsome; then back at Hermione, pale, trembling, and, she suspected, fairly green―and opened her mouth to reply; Hermione locked eyes with her and shook her head, twice, very firmly.

'Erm,' said Lindsay. 'Actually, perhaps Miss Granger should spend another night, just to catch up on some well-needed rest before heading out.'

'But wouldn't it be better if she rested at home?' Ron asked, looking crestfallen.

'No, no, no,' Hermione insisted. 'I quite like it here. It's very white and relaxing and sterile. _Very_ sterile. Good for resting.'

Ron raised an eyebrow at her. 'Are you sure you're feeling okay?'

'Positive!' Hermione practically shrieked.

But Ron did not look convinced, and he said, 'Well, at least, do you want me to get you anything? Bring you something to eat, or―'

The suggestion of ingesting anything right then triggered Hermione's gag reflex, and, shoving both Ron and Lindsay aside without ceremony, she bolted from the bed and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Turning his attention from the door, through which the muffled sound of retching was audible, Ron gave Lindsay a look that indicated that he knew they were withholding something but for the life of him could not figure out what it was. 'Are you sure she's okay?'

'Oh, she'll be fine,' Lindsay said quickly, adjusting her glasses and tucking the clipboard under her arm. She bustled past him towards the door. 'I should be off. People to see, patients to cure! Cheerio!'

: : :

I've died and gone to Hell, Draco thought grimly, his forehead resting against his forearm, which in turn rested against the tree trunk.

Or Heaven, the delightfully perverted part of his mind offered. It's all a matter of perspective, really.

Harry had still been shirtless when Draco woke up. He had taken one look at the naked chest, slick with perspiration, and decided a swift trip to the loo was in order.

Draco returned to camp to find Harry up and stuffing the remaining tent into the knapsack Hermione had left behind. He straightened up as Draco approached, nodding in greeting, the muscles in his neck and shoulders clenching and relaxing; shaking his head, Draco massaged his temples.

'You all right?'

'Yes,' Draco responded automatically.

'Hungry?'

'No,' Draco said, with feeling. 'Are you?'

'Not yet.' Harry shrugged. 'Guess we should get moving, then.'

They moved in silence for nearly two hours, Harry leading the way, Draco just half a step behind and to the side. Harry carried the bag over one shoulder, the sun lavishing the other and accenting every contour, every flex, every freckle, which were so fair that Draco had never realised they were there. Not that he had ever studied Harry Potter's naked shoulders up-close before, but he certainly didn't have freckles anywhere else...

That you've yet to see, the gleeful, demonic voice in his head reminded him.

Here we are, he thought, in the middle of the African savannah, hiding from Death Eaters and in search of something worse and this is all I can think about. He'd need to have a word with himself later about his priorities.

'What are you thinking about?' Harry asked abruptly.

'Freckles,' Draco responded automatically, and then choked. 'Ah,' he added, as Harry's eyebrows shot up and disappeared in his fringe. 'You know, this sun, being brutal and all. If I freckle in this heat I will be the shame of my family, and have to commit hari-kari. And it will be all your fault. Your great pledge to protect me will be a complete and utter failure.'

Harry's eyebrows stayed up, but he swallowed what sounded suspiciously like a snigger. 'If I were you, I'd be more worried about ending up looking like a shrivelled tomato.'

Draco made a face at him. 'Why did you ask?'

Harry shrugged. 'Your face was all scrunched up; I thought it might be important.'

'My face does not "scrunch up".'

'You looked like you were holding in a sneeze, or something.'

'Bugger you,' Draco declared. 'You're blind as a bat; your observations are completely unreliable.'

Harry pushed up his glasses, letting them rest on his forehead, his fringe fluttering haphazardly around them in the breeze. He looked completely alien without them on. 'I actually only need them to see far-off,' he said casually. 'S'why I always had to wear them in Quidditch.'

'Apparently I should have spent more time finding ways to sabotage your specs rather than dressing up in cloaks, then.'

'Apparently,' Harry agreed, with a grin. 'I suppose I should thank you for that, though.'

'What?' Draco asked, perplexed. 'Why?'

'It was the first time I'd ever conjured a corporeal Patronus,' Harry told him. Draco raised an eyebrow, surprised. 'It had always just been silver mist in the lessons with Lupin; I didn't even properly see the stag, I was so preoccupied with the Snitch.'

Draco thought perhaps he had seen that stag well enough for it to cement a fear of all horned fauna in him for the rest of his life. 'That scared the shit out of me, you prick. I thought it was coming to kill me.'

Harry grinned crookedly and said nothing; Draco felt a burning in his cheeks that had nothing to do with sunburn and resolutely turned his gaze to the ground.

: : :

Hermione couldn't sleep.

She lay staring at her ceiling, amazed at the many imperfections in the flat, white expanse that she had never noticed before. There was a chip in the paint reminiscent of Norway and a slightly off-colour spot she only noticed in the candlelight, and should likely look into; a slight leak, probably, they had experienced an unnatural amount of precipitation in the past five years.

Once again, Hermione found her mind dragged back from idle thoughts to what she had begun to refer to as her Very Gravid Situation by her traitorous hands, unconsciously ending up draped protectively over her abdomen.

Hermione gloomily concentrated on her ceiling again. Norway stared back, looking rather lost and alone in a sea of white, and perhaps a bit apprehensive about the slightly bulging, off-colour stain in the corner.

Right, Hermione thought grimly, recognising her symptoms of insomnia. When all else failed, to the books.

: : :

'I'm _trying_.'

'And failing—badly, may I add. Concentrate, Potter. Stare at the desolate wasteland before you—that we have to cross on _foot_, in the middle of the summer, thanks to your ingenious planning—and let your mind go blank. Shouldn't be hard for you.'

'Bite me.'

'You're terrible at this.'

'S'kind of hard to concentrate with you prattling on in my ear, Malfoy.'

'Don't hurt yourself.'

Harry grimaced, and resisted the urge to box Draco around the ears. It had been his idea, anyway; he'd spent so many hours complaining about being bored that Harry had succumbed to listening to him explain the basics of Animagus training.

Something to pass the time, his arse. Draco was just relishing the excuse to annoy him.

'Look,' Harry said, desperately, 'it's impossible not to think about _anything_. I mean, you say that, and then I think to myself, this is _stupid_. Why am I doing what this pillock says, anyway? And when the hell are we going to find Bill? And bloody fucking Christ, is it _hot_. I think I'm starting to melt.'

Draco listened to all of this with a slight smile. The smile grew as Harry's grimace deepened. 'That's why they call it _meditating_, Potter.'

'Meditating,' said Harry. 'Right. Well, whatever you call it, it's bloody impossible. It's like, it's like, you say to me, "Don't think about a pink rhinoceros." And of course the _first_ thing I think about is a bloody pink rhinoceros.'

'A pink rhinoceros?' Draco appeared to consider this. Harry could practically see the images forming. Then he blinked and said, 'What's a rhinoceros?'

: : :

Hermione sat herself at the carrel in the far corner of the Ministry library. One of the few perks of working at the Ministry was this library, its vast resources available to her at all hours. This late at night it was completely deserted aside from an unidentified Auror taking a cat nap, and a small group of Unspeakables huddled in the opposite corner talking in urgent whispers.

She dumped the books on the desk and began to shift through them. There weren't very many; most of the books the Ministry carried on pregnancy seemed to deal with hybrids and halfbreeds, bearing titles like_ Goblin In The Oven_, _Werepups: What Are The Odds?_and _So You're Going To Have A Foal: How To Avoid The Hooves_.

Three months. How could she be _three months_ along and not have noticed? She hadn't even felt ill in the mornings! All right, not every woman got morning sickness… but _most _of them did, surely. Of course, she had been working non-stop for the past several years, and snacked a lot on the go, and certainly didn't keep track of her weight or her monthlies and, come to think of it, her robes did feel a little snug…

Served her right, she supposed, for trying to have a sex life.

Oh, bugger. Mum is going to _kill me_.

The real issue here was how to tell Ron. It couldn't be anyone else's. The last time she had been intimate with anyone else had been years ago, and he was currently married to a Bulgarian supermodel and could get stuffed, for all she cared.

There was also the issue of whether to keep the baby. It would be irresponsible, this young, with this war, to have a child. She was terrified enough as it was, day in and day out, without having to worry about a _baby_. She was only twenty-two! And Ron, well – Ron still thought putting beetles in the office coffee-pot in the morning was amusing.

But surely this was his decision, too. At least, for her, it was. After all, this was partially his fault.

_Mostly_ his fault.

Maybe she should talk to Harry first.

No, what was she thinking?

It wasn't that she was worried he'd breach her confidence, or that he wasn't mature enough to give sound advice. He'd already proven he was probably the _most_ mature about sex between the three of them. No, it would just give him something else to worry about, and he had enough of that already. It would worry him for the same reason he himself was terrified to commit to anything – even a girlfriend. Ginny, as intelligent as she was, had never understood that.

Harry's private life wasn't something she thought about too often, not since the catastrophe with Ginny in seventh year. Again. Harry's issues with commitment had fed Ginny's own insecurities; and, honestly, as much as Hermione loved the girl, she was too used to being the little sister. Always protected, spoiled, and smothered with love and attention, she was too clingy – and Harry, starved for affection his entire life, had no idea how to show it. He always seemed too removed, too distant, incapable of expressing empathy. Ginny had taken the treatment personally, and hated him for it. And Harry, poor Harry, had no idea how to give her what she wanted.

Harry had stayed more or less single since then, but that hardly meant he'd remained abstinent since they had left school. Try as he might, subtlety was not his strong point. Cho had been his first; Hermione knew because Harry'd had to tell _someone_, and then _Ron_ had to tell someone, and, thankfully, Hermione didn't need to tell anyone so it had stopped there. From there on, Hermione had only heard rumours; rumours about Selena Fawcett, who'd been a year behind them in Ravenclaw and was a close friend of Luna's; a Muggle girl from Surrey; the Patil twins (which one, or both, she didn't care to know); Daphne Greengrass' little sister; and even about Luna herself, whom Hermione had inquired to directly, receiving a rare blink in response.

'Is that really any of your business?' Luna had asked her in return.

Then there were the little hints found around his flat; the steam from the shower floating into the hall long before either Ron or Harry had awakened, the random hickey left a little too high above his collar, the lingering smell of sex when he arrived at work in the morning. Hermione had finally cracked after six months of this and said something and, surprisingly, Harry hadn't immediately changed the subject and tried to escape. He had responded maturely, with eye-contact, and even laughed when she asked about the twins. She'd still been digesting that turn of events a week later when she Apparated into Harry and Ron's flat to discover that Ron wasn't home, and that Harry had company.

'Women have a history of being a pain in my arse,' Harry had explained later, once Blaise had gone home, looking pleased with himself, and Harry had sobered her up with a bottle of wine. 'No offence.'

'None taken.' Hermione had taken another long swallow before following with, 'But really, Harry – a _Slytherin_?'

Harry had burst out laughing. Hermione, unable to help herself, had found herself laughing with him.

It was odd, really, how much the war had affected who they were, what they had grown into―dictating their careers, their friends, even influencing their intimate lifestyles. Hermione was almost afraid to find out what life would be like without that constant, lingering threat hanging over their shoulders, ready to snatch their lives up and away without a moment's notice.

Which brought her back to the baby.

Well, drat. She scowled at the books, which in no way offered helpful advice on breaking the news to your oblivious partner. Waving them back to their places with idle flicks of her wand, Hermione stalked out of the library and pondered her next move. Harry wouldn't tell anyone, not even Ron, but wouldn't have any advice to offer. Ginny, after she calmed down, would have plenty of advice, but would tell Ron at the earliest opportunity. Tonks would probably be the best to talk to, but then she would tell Remus, and then _Remus_ would tell Ron.

Hermione sighed. Her list of confidants was growing short.

: : :

That evening, Harry coaxed a colourful bird down from a lonely-looking tree and persuaded it to allow him to tie a leather satchel to its foot. He furtively watched it go, hoping it'd find Bill okay. Wild birds weren't particularly reliable postmasters. But then again, how many six-foot-two redheads were likely to be wandering around the African wilderness?

They opted to sleep without the tent; there was a mercifully cool breeze, and the sky was clear, the galaxy spread above them like a thousand tiny diamond fragments on navy velvet. Coals glowed in the remnants of the fire Harry had built to cook their dinner—biscuits and tea from Hermione's bag, and the leftovers of some wild animal Harry had decided to try off a fresh carcass. It'd looked like it might have once been a zebra, or possibly a small water buffalo, but it had tasted fine once cooked, whatever it used to be. Draco, who had spent most of the day a vegetarian, opted for the biscuits and an orange he found in the depths of the bag while Harry finished off the meat.

Stomach full, on his back and off his feet (or hooves), Draco was feeling rather more peaceful than was usual for him. The smell of dust seemed muted by the cooler night air, and he was listening to crickets and trying to find various constellations in this strange new sky. Beside him, Harry dozed, not really looking, but listening, and feeling...

Every sound for miles seemed audible. The crickets were the most prominent, stretching from the close foreground across the plains in every direction. A distant rumble, a small tremor by the time it reached them, the echoes of some large herd moving before the last stretch of dusk turned into night. A sharp cry, far overhead and out of sight, marked the passing of some bird of prey returning to roost. Harry's mind focused on that one, unconsciously, until he could almost hear the wind ruffling glossy wing feathers; large amber eyes, hugely dilated, seeing further than the horizon; the world spread beneath, a patchwork quilt of savannah, rainforest, and mountains...

Harry, eyes half-closed in a well-fed stupor, would have been delighted to realise he had succeeded in finally thinking about nothing at all.

'That'd be bloody brilliant,' Draco said the next morning, after they'd packed up. 'Harry Potter, Cricket Animagus!'

'It wasn't just crickets, you prat.'

'Hey, _you_ said you noticed them first.'

'They were _loud_. And in the bush beside camp. And _everywhere else_. Anyway, it probably doesn't mean anything. There was like... a bit of everything, really. Close by, far off, high up...'

'I must say I find it endlessly amusing that you need a full stomach and a nap in order to clear your mind, though I suppose that's all very primordial, which makes sense in your case—ow, _ow_, all right, _all right_!'

'Still,' Draco said, a little more seriously, nursing the burning red rim of his ear, 'you're on the right track. I think, anyway. Mostly all I heard was horses, but as I tended to practise in the paddocks that really doesn't say much. You've got to like, pay attention to certain details that seem to stand out, or things that reoccur.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, really, it helps to keep a journal, as stupid as that sounds, unless you've got a really good memory. But aside from where I was, which I'm told can sometimes influence it, there were certain things that kept coming back. Like the smell of grass. I'd go to bed smelling grass, even after a long shower. Couldn't even magic it away. The paranoia was a big one, which was a real bugger with being on the run from the Dark Lord; I'd be creeping down the halls of the Manor poking my head around corners on my way back from the loo.' He grimaced briefly at the memory, and then added, 'Oh, and a sudden urge to eat apples. Lots of them.'

'Apples, huh,' Harry repeated, smiling slightly. 'No carrots? Hay? Alfalfa?'

'No. But—well, oats,' Draco admitted sheepishly. 'Mum just put it down to me needing more fibre.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'Well, I haven't had any urges for oats, or apples. Or for anything else, really. Except perhaps an air conditioner.'

Harry squinted towards the horizon. The endless dead grass and sandy dirt was giving way, slowly but surely, to sparse trees and larger, more colourful tufts of grasses. In the distance was the green promise of another stretch of jungle.

'I mean, I guess it would help if I knew what to expect. I know there's no way to know any details about my form, but I don't know what hints to look for. Maybe it came more naturally to you, or something. McGonagall said you were good at Transfiguration. This—this is impossible.' Harry sighed heavily, and then looked critically at Draco. 'How long did it take you? Before you had an idea, I mean.'

Draco shrugged. 'Couple of weeks? I didn't exactly keep track, and I didn't really focus on it for a while. Figuring out my form wasn't the hard part.'

'What was?'

'Figuring out how to morph without killing myself,' Draco told him. 'It's not exactly healthy to linger with the lungs of a human being and the heart of a horse.'

The hours passed slowly in the intense heat of the day. Draco had long sunk into a stupor of thoughtless, plodding steps before the sun began to set again, turning the sky into a bleeding mess of reds, oranges, pinks and purples. The moon was already visible, waning high overhead. The heat of day quickly turned cold as the first crickets began to chirp, a sound only broken by the rumbling of Harry's stomach.

'I'm hungry,' Harry complained.

'There's plenty of grass,' Draco pointed out.

'Yeah, I can see that.'

'Damn shame you're not an Animagus, yet, I'm sure your cricket form would find plenty of... whatever it is they eat, to eat.'

'Well it's a damn shame your Animagus form isn't something more useful, like a predator,' Harry snapped. 'Then you could do something helpful, like catch us dinner.'

Draco attributed his grouchiness to lack of food. They'd both been snacking on the rations of cheese, bread and fruit Hermione had packed in her bag. While this was fine by Draco, who really didn't fancy flesh after being an herbivore for several hours, Harry seemed to crave meat with every meal.

'We're too far from the river to Summon you some fish,' Draco pointed out, 'but you could always eat some bugs. Very full of protein, I hear.'

'I'd sooner eat the grass, but thanks.'

'We have plenty of fruit left.'

Harry said nothing, but stalked ahead, eyes searching the savannah. There were a few water buffalo grazing in the far distance, and the occasional cry of a bird nearby, but not much else. It was getting dark quickly; they would have to stop and set up camp soon.

Draco was scanning the nearby area for a suitable place to settle down when there was a flash of green light to his left. Very nearly hyperventilating, he wheeled around, clutching his chest.

'What the hell, Potter!'

Harry dug around in a bush and held up a cat-sized creature by the tail, squinting at it in the dimming light. 'Looks like a mongoose, or something. Whatever, it's better than more fruit.'

'You just—could you, I dunno, give me some warning next time? And what happened to not using magic unless we need it?'

'I'm fucking starved, I'd say I needed it,' Harry said, walking past him, the dead critter dangling limply from his hand. 'There's an outcrop of rocks not too far this way, good place for camp, we don't want to start a fire out in the open here.'

'What? Where? How can you see anything so far off in this light? How did you even see _that_ in this grass? Potter!'

: : :

'Oh, that's nice,' Luna said mildly. 'Would you like some tea?'

Hermione blinked. She'd expected some strange response from Luna, but hadn't been prepared for noresponse whatsoever. 'Um. Sure. Tea sounds… yes. Tea.'

Hermione closed the door to the flat Ginny and Luna shared and moved into the sitting room. Ginny obviously wasn't home; it was eerily quiet and the only light in the flat was coming from a few candles floating around the writing desk in the corner, covered in what looked like draft pages for the upcoming _Quibbler_. Luna reappeared a few minutes later, tea-tray hovering beside her, and sat across from Hermione in an overstuffed armchair.

'Do you know what it is?' Luna asked suddenly, as she directed the teapot to pour tea with her wand.

'Um. A baby?' Hermione hazarded.

'Well, obviously,' said Luna, and offered her a scone. Hermione accepted it gratefully. When had she become so hungry? 'I meant, do you know if it's a boy or a girl?'

'Oh. Um. No,' Hermione admitted. 'I didn't… I was just a bit surprised.'

'I don't see _how_,' Luna remarked, taking a bite of her own scone. 'It is one of the major side-effects of, well, you know.'

Hermione pursed her lips. 'I know, I _know_, I just—' she faltered, then plunged on, the words spilling out of her in a rush, 'I thought – I thought I'd been, but apparently I hadn't, and now it's – it might be too late, and Ron's going to freak out, and then Molly's going to freak out, and then _my_ mum's going to freak out, and hell, I'm freaking out and I'm – I'm – too young for this!'

'Yes, I can see why that might concern you,' Luna said mildly, when she'd finished. 'Though you certainly are not too young for this; did you know that, biologically, we should be having our first child between the years of twelve and fourteen? It varies, of course, from female to female; there have been recorded pregnancies in girls as young as nine – '

'Luna, _I'm_ pregnant. With a_ baby!_'

'I would certainly hope so, considering the alternatives,' Luna replied, nonplussed. 'Have you told Ronald yet?'

Hermione gaped at her. Luna took a sip of tea and regarded her with unblinking interest.

'How do you – no, you know what, never mind. I don't care. I just – how? How am I supposed to—' she waved her hands emphatically, '—_tell_ him?'

Luna shrugged. 'I would suggest with as few words as possible. Ronald tends to overlook subtleties, and you don't want him getting confused. Right to the point, I'd say. "Ronald, I'm pregnant with your child" should be sufficient. Covers all of the major points.'

Hermione continued to gape at her.

'If you're worried about his reaction, you could always send him an owl,' Luna suggested.

: : :

Harry was in a foul mood.

Draco could see it, and the horse could smell it. It made the horse nervous. He plodded just behind Harry, slightly off to the side, ready to bolt if Harry made any sudden movements.

The sun was unforgiving. The heat fell like a series of whip lashes from an hour after sunrise until the very last ray of light disappeared over the horizon and evening finally set in. The horse was oblivious to the heat; the Arabian had been bred into this climate for thousands of years, and the light sloughed off its white hide like water off a duck. Even thirst didn't bother it. The horse could drink lavishly, once, and go for several days before thirst bothered it again.

No, what annoyed the horse was not the heat, but the pace. The dull thudding of a walking pace across miles of flat, open, unpaved landscape with unshod hooves that could gallop across it at four times their current speed, and feel the hot air turn into a cool breeze across its fur.

Draco had thought about this before, and rejected it. If he had inherited anything from his father, it was pride. This did not couple well with the stubbornness he got from his mother.

But this was taking forever, and even the horse, with every sound, smell and sight on the savannah available to analyse, was bored. Draco had long grown bored of the leftover smell of gazelles, the distant thunder of herd migration, the ever-slowly-growing specks on the horizon.

The horse sped up, impulsively, skipping a few steps to bring itself just ahead of Harry, who had his head slumped forward against the midday brightness. Gently, attempting not to knock him completely on his arse, Draco shouldered Harry. Harry bounced to the side with a start, looked up, and glared at him. 'What the fuck?'

The horse cocked its head at him and Harry, apparently assuming Draco was just being annoying, rolled his eyes and pressed on. When Draco went to nudge him again he stopped short, shoving ineffectually at Draco's shoulder. 'I'm not really in the mood, Malfoy.'

Draco wheeled around, planting himself directly in front of Harry and giving him the most severe look he could manage. Harry blinked in the sudden onslaught of dust. Before Harry could side-step him again, Draco turned himself abruptly sideways, and sank to the knee of one foreleg.

Harry's expression quickly progressed through annoyed to blank to dubious.

'Er,' he said. 'Are you sure?'

A horse kneeling down may look elegant and dashing from a human perspective, Draco thought, but it was bloody awkward and uncomfortable for the horse. Muscles and tendons that wouldn't blink at six furlongs at thirty-five miles an hour were suddenly stiff and complaining. He snorted and flicked his tail to show his impatience.

Harry stepped forward, tentatively, as if expecting Draco to leap up and dash off, whinnying in amusement, at any moment. Draco concentrated on keeping the horse still despite the discomfort, reluctant to turn back and explain himself.

His withers itched suddenly, and it took his human brain a moment to catch up and realise that Harry was weaving a hand into the roots of his mane. The other hand came to rest on his mid-back, timidly at first, but the pressure grew firm as the hand in his mane tightened and tugged, heaving a leg up and over his side. Draco had expected it to be painful and to have to fight to keep his balance, but the two-hundred-or-so pounds of Harry Potter were an afterthought to the twelve-hundred-or-so sinewy pounds of the horse.

Harry shifted a few times, finding his centre of gravity. Draco waited and then, one step at a time, began to walk. When Harry began to move with him, he skipped a stride into a trot. Harry wavered then, tightening both hands in Draco's mane, but kept his balance. After several minutes of this, Draco broke into a canter. Harry tightened his hold again, knees digging into the back of Draco's shoulders, but didn't fall. The horse in him was thrilled: _this_ was more like it.

: : :

The time passed so much more quickly this way. It probably would have been more comfortable in a saddle, but Harry didn't mind; shocked at Draco allowing himself to be ridden in the first place, he had no intention whatsoever of insisting upon tack. He'd never used it with Hippogriffs or Threstals, anyway. He kept a firm grip on the white-blonde mane and adjusted his glasses, using them like a shield against the wind much as he did in Quidditch. Draco had steadily picked up pace as they went, judging how fast he could go without throwing Harry off. Harry twisted his fingers deeper into the mane, leaned low over the neck and squeezed his knees into the pits behind the horse's shoulders; he didn't need stirrups to ride a broom, after all. Draco sensed his change in posture and, with an approving whinny, broke into a full gallop.

It felt like they were racing the sun across the sky. Draco had been right; it was about as close as you could get to flying without a broom.

Eventually—hours later, or days, for all Harry could tell—Draco slowed down to a steady trot, two hooves alternating beneath Harry and skipping along the long, dry grass of the savannah. Harry closed his eyes and raised his head to the sky, the sun shining down on his face, and concentrated on the breeze—the wind created simply by moving, turning the hot sweat that coated them both into a cool sheen. The air even felt cooler going into his lungs, making him lightheaded. In the distance, he could hear a bird call, shrieking out into the sky. Harry's hands were so tangled in the strands of Draco's mane he wondered briefly if it would be safe to take a nap.

Overhead, the bird keened. The sound ripped through Harry, shooting through his head like a sonic boom. It physically hurt—it felt like someone had stabbed him in the ear, right through the brain, and his vision went black; the next moment he felt another sharp pain in his side, and realised he'd fallen off Draco—who was still a horse, rounding on him with oblong, grey eyes and flared nostrils. The horse pawed the ground beside him with a dainty yet arguably sharp hoof and tossed his head. Harry looked up, blinking, trying to restore his vision—the blackout's aftermath was particularly nasty in the glare of an afternoon African sun.

A small, red-brown falcon zipped into view and landed on a nearby stump, fixing Harry with a very intent stare. Draco gave Harry a rather rough shove in the back with his muzzle and Harry, unable to see what the fuss was about from within the knee-high grass he'd landed in, stretched up a hand and used Draco's neck to haul himself upright. The falcon gave another sharp call, making him wince, and then Harry realised it had an empty satchel attached to one leg.

He looked up as Draco whinnied, right in his ear, pawing and kicking up dust around their legs. Squinting, Harry could just make out a tall figure, also on horseback, heading their way. They would have been close enough to distinguish, had the sun not already been behind the figure, but all Harry could see was their outline. They were upwind, too, and that was probably why Draco was freaking out—whoever it was, he couldn't smell them.

Harry gave him a reassuring pat. 'Stay horse,' he muttered, drawing his wand.

Ten metres away, the figure coaxed its horse into a quick canter. Harry tensed; the fact that the falcon had a satchel suggested it was a wizard, but what did he know? Maybe Muggles around here used birds to carry important messages—the local post certainly couldn't be that reliable—but before he could decide whether or not to Stun first and ask questions later, the figure slowed down, close enough that Harry could just barely make out his face.

'Harry?' said Bill, tanned and sweating, a wide-brimmed hat slung low over his eyes. 'Thank Merlin, I was beginning to think something ate you.'

His hair was still long, as Harry remembered it, tied back into a ponytail at the base of his neck. He was riding a dark brown horse with a western saddle, and wearing dragon-skin boots and trousers with a light, sleeveless shirt. Harry could see a few new tattoos adorning his upper arms, and a leather cuff tied around his left forearm; and even in the shadow of his hat brim, the scars Greyback had given him stood out clearly. It must be close to a full moon.

'Bill,' Harry said, relieved. He put his wand away. 'I thought we were meeting you in Gondor.'

'Gondor's that way,' Bill said, smirking and pointing just north-east of where they had been heading. 'Anyway, it's faster this way, saves us some time. Gondor was out of the way.'

'How did you find us?'

Bill raised his left arm and the falcon returned to it, landing on the leather cuff, cooing appreciatively. 'Theron's the best tracking falcon I've ever had. Usually use him for locating bandits and grave-robbers to prevent nasty surprises, but once you'd sent that letter and I could give him a scent to follow, it was easy.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'I wasn't aware birds could smell that well.'

'Normal birds, no,' Bill admitted. 'Wizarding raptors, on the other hand, if properly trained, can track a magical scent like a shark can track blood in water.' He nodded to the falcon and threw his arm up, and the bird took off into the sky. 'He needs to hunt, but he'll catch up. I see you got yourself a mount,' he added approvingly. 'Hermione's letter mentioned walking.'

'Yeah, well, walking was taking forever,' Harry said grudgingly.

'I could have told you that. Where is everybody?'

Harry took a deep breath and glanced at Draco, who seemed for the moment content to remain on all fours. Bill dismounted while he started to explain, occasionally interjecting questions, and seemed genuinely interested about the Widow's Comfort. When Harry had finished, Bill handed him his canteen; Harry hadn't realised how thirsty he was, and was in mid-rehydration when Bill finally spoke.

'I don't suppose,' he said slowly, 'that you'll tell me what's so damned important that you're out here risking your life for it.'

Harry took one last, deep swallow. 'Sorry. I wish I could, but the less people know, the better.' Bill sighed and Harry, not wanting to seem ungrateful, began, 'It's not that I don't trust you. You know I do. I just can't—'

'I know,' Bill interrupted. 'It's fine, Harry, you don't have to explain yourself. Ron trusts you, and that's enough for me.'

Harry nodded, feeling a little pleased.

'Speaking of Ron,' Bill went on, incredulously, 'he usually fights tooth and nail to make sure he's always around to have your back. I can't believe he let you stay here on your own.'

'Er,' said Harry. 'Well, about that...'

: : :

'Still here, I see.'

Blaise looked up from the _Playwitch_ in his hands and raised an eyebrow. His father was standing by the desk in his sorry excuse for a library, idly digging through the parchments piled on the surface.

'I was unaware,' Blaise answered evenly, 'that I had worn out my welcome.'

'Don't be absurd. I merely meant to express my surprise,' Gervasio said dismissively. Blaise felt himself tense, and forced himself to relax. His father was often nosy; his sudden interest in his eldest's extended stay might mean nothing. 'You rarely visit these days, and often don't stay longer than it takes to ask for gold.'

'I have some time off,' Blaise answered casually. This, at least, was partially true. The Dark Lord had dismissed him some weeks previously and the mark on his arm had yet to burn.

'I see,' Gervasio answered, clearly taking his meaning. 'I assumed your mother would require your attention.'

'She's occupied,' Blaise reminded him. This was perfectly true, as well; she had left the debutante ball on the arm of some old, rich bastard who would see an increase to Blaise's inheritance shortly.

'Well, in that case, stay as long as you like.' Gervasio located the parchment he was looking for, and stood to leave. He paused at the door and added, casually, 'You've not heard from the Malfoy boy, have you?'

Blaise closed the magazine and rested it on his lap, turning his gaze back up to his father. 'If I had, do you think I would still be here?'

Gervasio shrugged. 'I do not pretend to know your methods, Blaise. I was merely inquiring on behalf of dear Narcissa.' He smiled at his son. 'She does worry about him so.'

'She has good reason to,' Blaise answered. 'It is, in fact, _why_ I am still here.'

'I see,' Gervasio said again. 'In that case, I will leave you to your… duties.'

Blaise watched his father leave, and sighed. He glanced out the window; even in the dim light of the sunset, he could see Narcissa, a splash of white in the darkness, making her way towards the stables as she did every night, a ploy to avoid Gervasio's attentions as much as she could. He knew Lupin was out there, somewhere, skulking in the darkness at her heels. How long his father would tolerate his presence, a constant reminder of his own mortality, Blaise couldn't guess, but he knew he had to stretch it for as long as he could.

: : :

'Oh, that is _so cool_,' Bill said when Harry had finished explaining and, after several minutes of snorting, hoof stomping and contemptuous looks, Draco had shown him.

Draco, a stallion once more, preened. He raised his white head and stood up straight, raising his tail high and looking extremely ridiculous as far as Harry could judge. Bill's horse gave Draco a dark look.

'Bloody useful Animagus form.' Bill was looking him over with keen curiosity. Draco seemed to be torn between flattered and disgusted. 'We could conjure another saddle using that leather sack―'

There was an agitated _pop_ and Draco folded his arms. Harry noticed he'd perfected shifting without losing any of his material effects―his hair wasn't even ruffled after the transformation. 'Oi,' he said flatly. 'Your lot may have my freedom but I'll be keeping my dignity, thank you!'

'Malfoy, stop being ridiculous,' Harry said tiredly, rubbing his forehead. 'No, it's fine, Bill. Really. We got this far without one, I don't mind.'

Draco, who had already opened his mouth to argue further, paused and eventually closed it. 'Oh,' he said, looking oddly placated. 'Okay.'

Bill gave Harry a look with raised eyebrows. Harry shook his head and Bill, clearly getting the message that pursuing the issue would cause more problems than it solved, shrugged and remounted his horse with a swift motion of long arms and legs. 'We should probably keep going while there's still some daylight left.'

'I'm not even sure where we're going,' Harry confessed as Draco turned back into a horse so quickly it was painful to watch.

'I do,' Bill said, surprising Harry. 'I've been all over this bloody continent on foot; I don't need a map to know where I'm going. I've never been _inside_ the area,' he continued, as Harry opened his mouth to ask that very question. 'I am aware of its existence, however, having passed it by several times. Good thing, too, the jungles around it are near impossible to navigate if you've never been there before. The place is thick with old magic. Gringotts would probably have had us raid it ages ago if it wasn't protected land.'

Harry nodded, thanking the yet-unfailing luck that had helped him with so many of his quests throughout the years. Draco poked him in the small of the back with his snout and Harry, snapping out of his reverie, turned around, grabbed a fistful of mane, and heaved himself up. It was a lot harder than it looked—the horse was bigger than it appeared from a respectable distance—despite Draco bending both knees in an effort to make it easier for him.

'Right,' Harry said, shifting until he found his centre of gravity. 'How long by...er...' he glanced down at Draco's white-blonde mane, and settled for, '—horse?'

'Not long, we'll be there by midday tomorrow if we make good time.' Bill was watching Draco prance around him and his horse impatiently. 'Assuming Malfoy can keep up.'

'Who cares?' Harry said, rolling his eyes as Draco swished his tail and cocked his head to look back at him, silvery eyes clear in the bright light. 'Maybe we'll get lucky and something will eat him.'

Draco gave a great snort, and nearly unseated Harry with a sudden lunge forward, breaking into a full gallop after a few short strides. Behind him, Harry heard Bill's laugh and the sound of hoof beats as the other horse struggled to keep the pace.

: : :

The track was deserted by dusk. The horses had been cooled down, fed, and stabled; jockeys and stable-hands had long since retired to the casino and adjacent hotel in search of alcohol or companionship, or both. Narcissa removed her heavy cloak and unlocked the latch to the private stables with a flick of her wand. The smell of the barn washed over her, warm and humid, the idle shuffling of stabled horses meeting her ears. Leaving her cloak on a rack by the door, she made her way between the stalls slowly, her footsteps muffled by a layer of musty hay on the floor.

She found what she was looking for in the large corner stall at the end: Onis, _Hailstorm_, Gervasio's prize gelding, a four-year-old thoroughbred-Granian hybrid. Wingless, it was the fastest land-bound mix ever to have been successfully bred. Narcissa took the bridle from its hook by the door and, pulling the half-apple from the pocket of her riding slacks, let herself inside. The horse regarded her stoically, and did not protest as she applied the necessary tack.

The air outside the stables had begun to chill. Narcissa did not return for her cloak; the vigour of riding would soon warm her. She urged the gelding into a quick trot onto the circuit, capturing her hair and securing it beneath a riding cap as they reached the moist, brown turf. Her mount pawed the ground eagerly; he knew what the long oval of the track meant, and longed to stretch his legs. Narcissa paused only briefly to make sure the tack was tight and secure before leaning low over his neck and, with a nudge from her heels, turning him loose.

Narcissa closed her eyes and breathed. This she could do forever, without tiring. Her consciousness switched to automatic at the familiar surge of muscles beneath her, distracting her from what awaited her return. She had chosen to stay here more for Draco's sake than her own; the Ministry could, in theory, protect her – and Harry Potter and his friends at the Order certainly could – but Draco would linger and worry and put himself at risk if she were so close.

This far removed, her son had a far better chance at succeeding. And while Gervasio was a lot of things, selfishness was above all his distinguishing character. He would do everything in his power to keep her safe as long as he saw her as a possession, and if that meant giving Draco more time, she could deal with it. Every time he touched her, her skin crawled. She'd had to resist shoving her wand through his throat every night she had retired here. But this she could tolerate, however temporarily, for her son. Gervasio would get what was coming to him soon enough and, hopefully, from her own hand.

There was a sudden rush of air, and a loud _crack_. Her mount pulled a full stop and reared, falling sideways, nearly throwing her. Narcissa cursed and loosed the reins, giving slack, and the horse stumbled sideways on its hind legs before falling heavily back to earth on all fours, eyes rolling. Onis spun in a tight circle, backpedalling, whinnying, throwing his head in agitation. Narcissa stroked his neck, trying to calm him, and followed his line of sight, and stopped.

Three robed figures stood silhouetted ahead of her on the track. The one in the middle, shorter than the other two, began walking forward. Narcissa's mount snorted, kicking up turf as he tried to back away. Narcissa held him firm. The tip of the figure's wand lit up; four feet away, Bellatrix stopped and smiled.

'Dear sister,' she greeted sweetly. 'How _have_ you been?'

: : :

'Sweet Hippogriffs,' Draco said, staring. 'Isn't that—?'

'Merlin's bloody bollocks,' Bill murmured, equally stupefied.

They had stopped to camp for the night in a cosy little outcrop of rocks in the side of a canyon. The canyon itself served as the border to the final stretch of jungle they would need to penetrate, if Bill's information was correct, to gain access to the reserve. The sun was still over the horizon and Harry would have liked to carry on, but Bill had insisted they stop early. The reserve would be another half day's journey even on horseback, he'd pointed out, due to the dense jungle. Harry had grudgingly agreed and had been helping Bill set up the tents when Draco had made a sudden shrill, gleeful noise at some shrubbery he'd discovered just inside the treeline.

'It _is_.' Draco nodded once, then twice, and then a third time to confirm. '_Merlin_. It is it is it _is_.' He sounded nearly giddy. He shot Bill a furtive glance. 'You think we could—'

'Fleur would have a _fit_,' Bill advised. His eyes flickered up at Draco, considering. And then, finally, he added, 'I won't snitch if you don't.'

Draco grinned at him. 'Deal.'

'Er,' Harry said.

Neither of them seemed to hear him. Draco had already started harvesting the plants. Bill was stretching out some scrap parchment and poking it experimentally with his wand. He held it up against the bonfire for Draco to see. 'Think this'll do?'

'It'll have to,' Draco said, shrugging. 'Packaging's not important, so long as it isn't toxic. Here.'

He tossed a bundle past Harry to Bill, who caught it and laid it out on one of the long, flat stones by the fire. Pointing his wand at the leaves, he muttered, '_Exaresco_.' With a faint crackling noise, the freshly-picked leaves dehydrated, turning a dark brownish-green in colour, and Harry raised his eyebrows, catching on.

'You've _got_ to be joking,' he said.

Draco stepped carefully out of the cluster of plants, dusting off his trousers and looking extremely pleased with himself.

'Abyssinian shrivelfig,' he declared. 'Commonly used as an ingredient in Shrinking Solutions, but when inhaled has the most interesting effect on strapping young blokes such as ourselves.' Bill tossed Draco something very small, and Draco caught it easily.

'Totally illegal, of course,' Draco continued, 'to grow, or import and export without an official permit, but with no specifications on legality _if_, by chance—and this is purely hypothetical, mind you—you happen to be randomly wandering through the deep jungles of Ethiopia and, _by chance_, come across a wild crop.' Draco draped his other arm around Harry's shoulders and sagged against him, holding up what Harry could now see was, worst fears confirmed, a joint. 'Savvy?'

'You've got to be joking,' Harry said again, more to himself than to the others. 'Malfoy, I can't possibly condone this. I'm a _cop, _for Merlin's sake.'

'Since when do you give a flying Flobberworm about rules?' Draco demanded, pulling away and putting on a pout. 'And you are an _off-duty_ copper, who is also in a foreign country, which, if I'm not mistaken, means your authority can kiss my arse.'

Bill placed his own joint between his lips, lit it with the tip of his wand and took a long, slow drag, and then grinned rather alarmingly at Harry. 'Go on, Harry,' he said, blowing out the smoke, 's'good stuff, trust me.' He tossed Harry the third and final fag he'd rolled, and set back to smoking his own.

'Good man, Weasley,' Draco said approvingly, 'good man.' He nudged Harry in the ribs. 'What do you say, eh, Potter? Two drags and I promise all of your worries about Evil and Dark Lords and the Apocalypse will float away with the Nile.'

Harry raised an eyebrow. 'Two drags?'

'Two drags,' Draco repeated. 'What's the worst that can happen?'

While Harry quickly made a list in his head of worst-case scenarios, Draco got bored, and wandered over to squat down before Bill, who leaned forward to light Draco's smoke with his own.

'This is a stupid idea,' Harry attempted, knowing he had already lost the battle. 'What if we get ambushed?'

'It's _Africa_, Harry,' Bill said, waving an arm for emphasis. 'We're the only sorry blokes for _miles_. May as well make the most of it. Besides, I put up wards,' he added reassuringly. 'We are Death Eater-proofed.'

'What if we get ambushed by _lions_?' Harry persisted.

'Lions!' Draco sat down, using Bill's shoulder as a backrest; Bill leaned comfortably back against him. 'Fear not, my lad, for I am a defeater of lions. I am the Lion Tamer. Lions fear my mighty hooves!'

'Lion,' Harry felt urged to correct. 'You are defeater of _a _lion. What if the next one brings friends?'

'Die fast, live young,' Draco drawled dramatically, 'or something.' He took another deep drag. 'You're not smoking, Potter,' he said as he exhaled, looking crestfallen. 'It doesn't work unless you _smoke_ _it_.'

'I don't think I want to smoke it,' Harry said, eyeing the joint Draco had given him warily. 'This is probably some evil, Slytherin plot to disarm me.'

Draco scoffed. 'Yeah, right. I'll probably get kicked out of the Slytherin alumni just for sharing with you sorry sods.'

'Hey,' Bill interjected between drags, 'I'm not complaining. Three cheers for Slytherin.'

'Hurrah,' Draco huzzahed, grinning. 'One down, one to go. Scared, Potter?'

Harry squinted at the joint. Actually, he was scared of a lot of things. Dementors scared him. Voldemort scared him. Basilisks scared him. His nightmares scared him.

People he loved dying scared him.

_Two drags_. What the hell.

He sat down across from them, resting his elbows on his knees. Bill offered Harry the smoking tip of his joint. Hesitating only for a moment, Harry leaned in and lit his own. He jerked away, hacking.

'Virgin,' Draco sneered. 'Don't pull so hard, you're going to rupture a lung. Take it _slow_.'

It was a few minutes before Harry could breathe without coughing again. By the time he chanced taking another drag, Draco and Bill were swapping stories.

'I had to get drunk to ask Fleur out,' Bill admitted, scowling when Draco tried to laugh and inhale at the same time and started hacking. 'It was the only way I didn't end up trying to tell her I was going to be the next Minister for Magic or some other codswallop, you prick.'

Draco coughed a final time and took another lengthy drag, giving Bill a comforting thump on the back. 'No, no, I wasn't – she _is_ a babe. Was,' he corrected quickly at the narrow look Bill gave him. 'Was, before she got, you know. Married. To you. Other men's wives are not babes,' he told Harry importantly. Harry snorted.

'Worked out for me in the end, anyway,' Bill said, mollified. 'Don't tell me you've not done stupid shit when you're drunk.'

'I tried to do a Hovering Charm on myself,' Draco told him, grinning. 'Except I got the incantation wrong, and Snape found me asleep on the ceiling of the common room the following morning. He gave me detention for the rest of my _life_.' Bill laughed, and Harry found himself grinning at the image. 'What about you, Potter? Snag any Veelas or defy gravity while you were sloshed?'

'I conjured a Patronus in a pub, once,' Harry admitted.

'Fred told me about that,' Bill said, grinning. 'I put a Locomotor Charm on Charlie's bed after he fell asleep in seventh year. What? The git deserved it; he scorched my best jacket while he was off chasing dragons all summer. Tell you what, his face, waking up in the middle of the village square – '

Draco gave Bill an appraising look. 'And here I thought all of you Gryffindors were boring.'

'I wouldn't call my school life _boring_,' Harry pointed out defensively.

'Oh, right, terribly exciting, chasing monsters and dark lords all over the castle, I'm sure,' Draco said dismissively. 'Oi, Weasley, still with us? Hey, in fifth year, we bewitched the Hufflepuff team's brooms to fly backwards – '

'Y'know Charlie, that sod, actually rode backwards during a game once on a dare? And we still won the match?'

'Who were you facing, Hufflepuff?'

'Yes. But – fuck you, Slytherin,' Bill said, grinning as Draco snorted with mirth.

'But yeah,' Draco continued when he could breathe again, 'those brooms? We used them to play broom-tag in the dungeons. That was a bad, _bad_ idea.'

' – word to the wise, by the way,' Bill interjected, 'don't ever try to Apparate when you're drunk, worst fucking hangover I've ever had – '

'Pansy turned my hair fuchsia one night.'

'It'd suit you,' Harry commented casually through a line of smoke. He was finding it increasingly difficult to focus on the conversation, which seemed to be changing topics at lightning speed.

'Least your own brother didn't fill your knickers with peppermint snaps; I couldn't sit properly for a _week_.'

'Took bloody _ages_ to get it out, too. My hair looked like candy floss.'

' – I snogged Cassie Clearwater, too, sixth year; I think she was drunker than I was…'

'I got off with Blaise.'

'You what?' said Harry.

Even Bill, irises already dilating, blinked. 'Zabini? Isn't he dating my sister?'

'Is he?' Draco asked. 'What a ponce.'

'You what?' Harry repeated.

Draco glanced briefly in his direction before standing up, with some effort. 'I,' he announced to the camp at large, 'need to take a piss.'

'Take one for me, too,' Bill requested, taking another drag but making no effort to move.

Draco had got lost, Harry thought; it must've been ten minutes since he'd wandered off. Or possibly eaten. Okay, maybe not ten minutes, but Harry was sure he had had something important to ask him when he returned and had already forgotten what it was.

Harry was just considering going to find him when Bill decided to scoot over and use his stomach as a pillow.

'He's not so bad,' Bill said by way of conversation.

Harry rolled his eyes. 'You want to babysit him for a while?'

'Well, he's a bit self-absorbed and definitely still a git, but he's no Lucius Malfoy, either,' Bill said fairly. 'You two seem to get on all right.'

'Only because we have to.'

'Mm,' Bill considered. 'Old grudges die hard, I suppose.'

'I don't have a grudge,' Harry insisted. 'I just hate him.'

Bill chuckled. 'You've not changed much.'

'What d'you mean?' Harry asked blankly.

Bill waved the hand holding his fag about. 'You. Just you, the one I remember when you came over for holidays and things. Teenager-you. Ginny says that, too.'

'She says I'm still teenager-me?' Harry asked, frowning.

'Yeah. Well, no, not exactly, but she says, she says you're still _you_, you know?' That really didn't make any sense, but then whatever they were smoking seemed to negate any sense at all, so it wasn't worth pointing out. 'She never told us why you two stopped seeing each other,' Bill added thoughtfully. 'Ron said you felt guilty 'coz it was his little sister.'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'He knows that's not why. We just—'

Harry was saved having to say anything more by Draco returning. He took one look at them and narrowed his eyes. 'Comfy?' he asked.

Bill yawned and closed his eyes. His head was heavy against Harry's stomach. 'Extremely.'

: : :

'If you're here to interrogate me about my son,' Narcissa said briskly, 'you know you are wasting your time.'

Bellatrix smiled crookedly at her sister. It was very dark on the deserted track, and she could hear the distant hoof beats of the creature Narcissa had dismounted and released, which had taken one look at her and fled. 'Nice to see you, too,' she said sweetly. She glanced briefly around the estate, her eyes lingering on the Palazzo, its many windows alight and glittering. 'I see you haven't done so badly for yourself. Again.'

'Jealousy does not become you.' She did not flinch when Bellatrix snarled, her upper lip curling back to reveal a flash of white teeth. 'If you want my son, I suggest you hunt down Harry Potter.'

'Actually,' Bellatrix began, 'the Dark Lord has asked me to deliver a message. An offer. A rather generous one, I should say.'

'That… _creature_ has nothing I want.'

Bellatrix hissed. 'You dare insult him? He, who has given you so much?'

'Given me?' Narcissa rounded on her sister, her cool demeanour replaced with wild fury. 'He has given me nothing! All he has done is take—steal! My husband, my son, our futures, livelihoods—my _sister_—what more could he possibly want?'

'He has given your family _purpose_, dear sister!' Bellatrix snapped. 'What was Lucius, before the Dark Lord? A petty politician, shoving gold into the robes of rich old men, making them richer—and your son? A bully, and a pathetic one at that! Spoiled rotten by you and your weak husband—'

Narcissa's hand connected sharply with the side of her face before she could finish, snapping her head to the side. Bellatrix was silent for a moment, her hand feeling her cheek; the skin was hot under her fingertips.

'Don't you dare,' Narcissa hissed, her voice low, 'insult my husband.'

Bellatrix did look at her then, and smiled. 'Or what? You'll swat me again? Pardon me if I don't _cower_ in fear.' She laughed, high and shrill, the noise carrying deep into the night. 'No, Cissy, you listen to me. The Dark Lord could make an example of you and your precious little boy with very little effort. But lucky for you, he is _quite_ fond of me.' She paused to smile again, and was pleased to note that Narcissa was watching her carefully, waiting for her to finish. She was _interested_. Good. 'And knowing what situation Lucius left you in, who could blame you and Draco for hiding as you did? After all, Lucius surely filled your heads with terrible, terrible lies about our Lord, that he would punish you both like he was going to punish Lucius. But our Lord is merciful, Cissy. He knows Lucius was a liar, and he doesn't blame you. Or Draco.' She tilted her head, pouting magnificently. 'This has all been a very _terrible_ misunderstanding.'

Narcissa's blue eyes were unreadable. 'Is that so.' She folded her arms, her riding whip tucked tightly against her chest. 'So, what does he want?'

'Oh, not much,' Bellatrix said, shrugging. When Narcissa raised an eyebrow, she turned away, stretching her arms into the midnight sky. 'Just the Manor.'

'The—he wants the _estate?_' Narcissa grabbed her sister by the arm, twirling her back around. 'Why? Why does he want the Manor?'

Bellatrix made a face and shrugged again. 'It is not my place to question—'

'Why?' Narcissa demanded.

Bellatrix dropped the act. 'Your husband,' she spat, then smiled, 'lovely chap that he was, of course, I'm just repeating what I've heard, mind you—' Narcissa made to interrupt, but Bellatrix rolled her eyes and continued, 'He had something. In the Manor. The Dark Lord lost access to it when Lucius died—'

'You mean when that bastard killed him,' Narcissa interjected.

Bellatrix hissed. 'When your husband passed,' she countered. 'The Manor is not rightfully Draco's. And the Dark Lord needs it back.'

'What for?'

'No idea.'

'Bella—'

Bellatrix gave her a look. 'Look, Cissy, it's quite simple. I pass the message to you, and you pass it on to your spawn. All he has to do is let the Dark Lord in. Then you can go. Both of you. It's of no consequence to the Dark Lord whether you live or die, though he certainly would prefer for as many pure-bloods with... reproductive capabilities to survive this war as possible. Draco, of course, will make any number of suitable young girls a fine husband; and even you, little sister, still have some years left in you.'

Narcissa seemed to consider this for some time. Bellatrix twirled her hair around her wand, looking bored.

'It's a good offer,' Bellatrix said finally, growing impatient. 'You both get to live. That's all you care about, isn't it?'

Narcissa looked up at her, chin held high. 'I will tell him.'

'Lovely,' Bellatrix said, pinching her sister on the cheek. 'Say hi to Draco for me, will you?'

She watched Narcissa ride away into the night, the darkness swallowing her up as she reached the other side of the circuit. Her husband and brother-in-law stepped forward on either side of her, a slight ruffle of the breeze announcing the movement.

'Did she buy it?' Rodolphus asked.

Bellatrix looked sideways at her husband. He was a fairly simple man; simple in looks, lifestyle, habit and personality. Always right to the point. She liked that about him.

She smiled. 'We shall see.'

: : :


	12. Chapter Eleven: Falling Is Like This

Chapter Eleven  
**Falling Is Like This**

_u__ntil your rapture falls to pieces  
find in me the room to breathe  
simple things like suffering_

: : : : :

_June 24, 1999_

Harry stared at the date on the calendar, a destitute ornament on the wall across from his bed. It was currently illuminated by a soft, orange rectangle of light from the setting sun outside his window. His scar throbbed dully. His eyes stung. His throat hurt; the lead weight lodged there was heavy enough to hold him down despite the growling of his empty stomach.

He could hear distant voices drifting down the hall from the sitting room; Hermione had arrived a couple of hours before, announced by a tentative knock on his bedroom door that he had studiously ignored. From the sound of it, she and Ron were arguing again. They didn't do much else these days. They could argue about pretty much anything: work, Harry, the Order, Harry, dinner, Harry, sex and Harry were just some of their favoured topics.

He really should get out of bed.

He knew Hermione would try again, and soon. She did every year. It had taken some doing, finding a spell for his door that Hermione couldn't undo. Sometimes Harry considered putting the Fidelius Charm just on his bedroom and becoming his own Secret Keeper.

He wasn't angry at her; she cared and she was worried. He got that. What he needed _her_ to get, however, was that sometimes there wasn't anything anyone could say.

Sometimes, he just needed to be left alone.

He could depend on Ron for that, at least. It wasn't that Ron understood what was going on in his head, any more than Hermione did, but Ron _did_ understand that, as close as they were, as much as Harry trusted and loved them both, there would always be that barrier—that line that separated Harry from everyone else, even his closest friends. That line that they could never cross, no matter how lonely the other side of it might get.

The voices down the hall started to rise, then abruptly fell quiet. There was silence, then a tell-tale creak of floorboards outside his door. The knock was so quiet, so careful, he almost missed it.

'Harry?'

Harry rolled onto his back, took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. Stale tears ran from the corners of his eyes and into his ears.

'Harry,' Hermione tried again, her voice soft and muffled through the door. 'You really should eat something.'

Harry sighed heavily, rolling back onto his stomach, pulled a pillow over his head and waited. Every year, every twenty-fourth of June, they went through this routine. You'd think a girl as clever as Hermione would learn.

But it was all right. Any second, now, Ron would come to his rescue.

Sure enough, the floorboards creaked again, louder this time. There was a pause in which Ron would put his arm awkwardly around Hermione's shoulders.

''Mione,' followed by another pause in which Hermione would look at Ron, and Ron would shake his head.

Harry needed his friends, but not on this day.

Never on this day.

And now they would leave. Where they went didn't matter—Harry supposed they went back to Hermione's. Or maybe they went to hang out with other friends, people who never noticed that it was always on this day, every year, that Harry Potter took a day off.

The sound of creaking floorboards died away. A distant thud signalled the front door closing. Harry lay in bed for another half an hour or so, until the pain of a full bladder forced him to his feet and down the hall to the bathroom. He showered, too, for lack of something better to do while he waited for nightfall.

When the glow from the sun had finally faded, Harry dressed quickly, collected a tall bottle from under his bed and his Invisibility Cloak from the hook inside his bedroom door, grabbed his wand from the bedside table and Disapparated directly out of his flat.

It was a humid night, the ubiquitous mist casting a fine layer of water-beads on every surface, making the edges of the headstones glitter like glass. Harry took his time, taking the long route around the graveyard, but there was still a figure there when he arrived. He waited patiently until Amos Diggory, looking greyer every year, sighed heavily before turning to leave. When Harry was sure he was gone, he pulled off the cloak, sat on it and took the bottle from his robes. The scotch looked green in the blue light of the moon.

He had never been able to keep track of time here, but it didn't matter. The grass was wet, but warm and soft. He rested his back against the yew tree that sheltered the Diggory family graves and closed his eyes.

He had no idea how long he sat there, not quite asleep, before he felt it. He opened his eyes a sliver, and peered to his left. A dark figure stepped out of the shadows and dropped down unceremoniously by his side, accompanied by an overwhelming odour of cologne and ash.

'Not a wise place to fall asleep, Potter,' Blaise Zabini said, his voice too loud in the silence. 'Anyone with half a brain would know exactly where to find you today.'

Harry opened his eyes fully, looked at Blaise, then looked down. Blaise followed his gaze and saw the tip of Harry's wand, tucked out of sight in his lap, aimed discreetly at his ribs. Blaise looked back up and smirked. 'Point,' he said, and then, 'Is that whiskey?'

Harry held the bottle up to the light, evaluating how much was left. Not enough to share. He handed it over anyway.

'You're going to become an alcoholic, you keep this up,' Blaise remarked, taking a swig.

'There's far worse things I could become,' Harry said darkly, looking away.

'Fair enough. Anyway, sorry to interrupt your séance, but I thought this might cheer you up.'

Blaise handed him a small scroll of parchment and Harry, wordlessly casting _Lumos_, glanced at it half-heartedly. He blinked and squinted at it, reading it again, carefully this time. He looked over at Blaise, who raised his eyebrows.

'And_?_' Harry prompted. 'What did you tell them?'

'Nothing, yet,' Blaise said, taking another swig of the scotch, draining it. 'I figured you'd want to know before I sent a reply, but as it's rather time-sensitive material, it couldn't wait.'

'No,' Harry agreed. He was actually thankful for the distraction. 'Are you ready for this?'

'No,' Blaise spat, tossing the empty bottle at a random headstone. It didn't shatter, but clanged sharply, once, before thudding softly onto the grass. 'Fuck, Potter. I'm not ready for what I'm doing as it is.'

Harry didn't tell him he had known what he was getting into, because he hadn't. Nobody ever did. Harry had tried to warn him, anyway, years ago—but maybe not as strongly as he should have, because Harry had needed him. Still needed him. People weren't exactly lining up to volunteer for this sort of thing.

'I need you,' Harry told him now, wishing he had thought to bring another bottle. 'I wish there was somebody else, but there isn't.'

'Don't try to guilt me into this,' Blaise said sharply, though he knew that Harry was doing no such thing. 'I shouldn't even be here. None of this has anything to do with me.'

'You already agreed to this, Zabini.'

'Fuck you,' Blaise snarled, rounding on him. 'Do you have any idea what you're asking me to do?'

'Yes,' Harry answered, truthfully. 'I have every idea.'

Blaise was silent a moment. He pulled up the left sleeve of his robe, exposing the naked forearm underneath, and stared blankly at the unmarked skin there. Dropping his sleeve abruptly, he summoned the empty bottle with a quick flick of his wand. He closed his eyes and, after a minute of concentration, placed the tip of his wand to his temple and withdrew a long, thick string of memories and deposited them in the bottle. He capped the bottle, stared at it for a moment, and then handed it wordlessly to Harry, who took it.

'If I don't come back,' Blaise said finally, his voice flat, 'see that my mother gets those.'

Harry nodded. Blaise stood up and turned to leave.

'Zabini,' Harry called, halting him. He couldn't thank him, not for this, and Blaise would probably kill him if he tried. 'Come back.' He said it like an order.

Blaise looked at him then, over his shoulder, eyes unreadable. He nodded, once, before Disapparating without a word.

: : : : :

_it feels like reckless driving when we're talking  
it's fun while it lasts, and it's faster than walking_

_but no one's going to sympathize when we crash  
they'll say, you hit what you head for, you get what you ask_

_and we'll say we didn't know, we didn't even try  
one minute there was road beneath us, and the next just sky_

: : : : :

'You think it, like, hurts,' Draco was saying slowly, so very slowly that Harry could not remember what had led to this inane babble, 'like, _really_ hurts, when we eat them? I mean, everything has feelings. Even frogs. Even _chocolate_ ones. Right?'

Harry sighed, forcing two streams of smoke out of his nostrils. He felt extremely lazy all of a sudden. 'Mm. I dunno. Even chocolate?'

'Why not? Chocolate makes me feel pretty good.'

'Lots of things make me feel good—'

'Like what?'

'Like... hell, I dunno. Flying. Sex. Smoking shrivelled figs, apparently. But it doesn't mean they can feel anything in return, though. Does it?'

'Maybe if you've been having sex with inanimate objects. Chocolate _tastes_ good,' Draco went on, seemingly determined to prove his point even if neither of them could remember what it was. 'And if they _hop_ that means they're _alive_ and if they're _alive_ they have _feelings_, amiright?'

'I've only had sex with animate objects,' Harry insisted. 'Anyway, they hop because of magic, I thought. They're just chocolate—it's a spell. Like _lumos_, only for hopping instead of light. What's "hop" in Latin, d'you know?'

'It's _tripudio._ I think? But that's technically _leap_. I don't think there is a Latin word for "hop". D'you think magic has feelings?'

'How can you remember that? I can't even remember whyI was pissed off with you,' Harry muttered, disgruntled. 'And I dunno. Maybe. Like, do you mean, if you poke it and it hurts sort of feelings, or if you, like... I dunno, break up with it and start using some other sort of magic type of feelings?'

'You can't break up with magic,' Draco said with a lazy wave of his hand, sending smoke swirling from his joint.

'Sure you can. Cos what if you, er—' Harry fumbled to articulate his next thought, '—like, I dunno, broke your wand, or something, and then never got a new one and you moved into a Muggle neighbourhood and never used it again.'

'Even if you don't _use_ magic, it's still _there_. It's always _there_. It's like... like... ah, I dunno. Trying to live without oxygen—you can try to hold your breath and it might work for a minute, or two even, but then, eventually, you get all red and blue in the face and such and your cheeks hurt and, and you _have_ to breathe in. Don't argue; we both know I'm smarter than you.' He paused, considering, then added, 'And far better looking. And fantastically wealthy, of course.'

'You could suffocate,' Harry pointed out. 'And who says you're better looking than me? Just because you're blonde, but that doesn't mean anything.' He paused, deliberating. 'I do suppose you're a loaded fucking git, though. But money doesn't make you better-looking.'

'It does _so. _Don't pretend you're not jealous – you're so full of envy that your eyes are _green. _Who would want to suffocate? I _like_ breathing magic.' He took another drag of his joint, letting the smoke trail lazily out of his mouth as he exhaled.

'My eyes are dashing. My mum's eyes, everyone says so; my mum was very pretty.'

'My mum is very pretty, too, you know.'

'Mm. But you don't have her eyes.'

'No,' Draco considered. 'I suppose I don't. Bugger.'

'You have something else. From her, I mean. Not eyes or hair or nose, that's all from Lucius and he was a bastard so I don't want to talk about him. But your eyebrows. Smile. Also hysteria.'

'Also pretty. And _you're_ a bastard, you bastard. Leave off about my father. It's unfair to pick on the dead, they can't fight back. Eyebrows? Really?'

'All right, all right, sorry. Yes, eyebrows. Attitude, too,' Harry said, looking around. 'Hey, what happened to Bill?'

'Ah—I think we lost him,' Draco said. He sat up on his elbows and looked around, and from beside him Harry could see his eyes: thin, bright silver rings and wide pupils reflecting the starlight. 'Oh, wait, no, he's there.' Draco pointed to somewhere over Harry's far shoulder before collapsing back on the ground. 'The man has no stamina.'

'He has stamina,' Harry reasoned. 'He fights mummies for a living. You need stamina to fight mummies.'

'Mummies.' Draco shuddered. 'Can you imagine being mummified? Bloody hurt, wouldn't it, being tied to a table and having all your insides and stuff taken out, and they put 'em into little jars with weird heads on, and they wrap you up in this little cocoon thing that's all gauzy and suffocating... no room to _breathe_...'

'It wouldn't hurt; they do it after you're dead.'

'Unless you're naughty. I saw that Muggle film on the telly; that priest was shagging the Pharaoh's concubine, and they took him and all his little priestly man-slaves and did them _alive_. Alive while they could _feel it_. S'creepy.'

'You need to stop staying up all night watching scary movies.'

'It wasn't scary, it was hilarious. Except for that bit, where they tied them down and sliced them open, you could see 'em being all twitchy and screaming and then they cut out his tongue—'

Draco shuddered again, harder, and it vibrated through Harry, who hadn't realised they were lying so close. He formed a very warm, solid barrier against the chill of night. Harry leaned into it, following Draco's gaze upwards.

They lay in silence for a few moments, then, 'The sky,' Draco said. 'It looks so... so...' he made a wide, explosive motion with his hands, '_big_.'

'Doesn't look that big in London,' Harry agreed.

'Maybe it grew when we weren't looking?'

'Is that even possible?'

'The Heavens work in Mysterious Ways.'

Harry gave a snort. 'A bit like women's minds, then.'

'So is _that_ why you're single?' Draco turned his head towards Harry. 'Because women's minds are like the Heavens?'

Harry shrugged, still looking up. 'I guess. Yeah. No. Hell, I dunno,' he said, frowning again. 'It's just such a... a _bother_, you know?'

'No,' Draco said. 'Can't say that I do. Never bothered to bother finding out if it was a bother or not.'

'Some of it's nice. I mean, girls are pretty nice to have around. Most of the time. Until you get worried about them. Cos girls worry about _everything_ and every_one_ and they do it _all the time_, but if you get worried about _them_ they get all in a _bother_ because they do enough worrying for the _both of you_ and it's. It's just not _fair_.'

'Pansy was nice to have around,' Draco said, tilting his head to the side. His temple bumped Harry's shoulder lightly, and rested there. 'Well, when it was just, you know. Friends, or even the boyfriend-girlfriend stuff was all right at first. But I mean, I really wouldn't know, it was sort of like, I was snogging my sister instead of my girlfriend, so I don't think it really counts.'

Harry looked over, curious. 'Did you love her?'

Draco exhaled heavily. 'No,' he said. 'Well, I guess, sort of how you probably love your clueless duo. But not the, like, I want to stroll through flowering meadows and make sweet love to her sort. You know?'

'I think so. I dunno, caring was never a problem. It never is. It's always people being idiots or jealous or unreasonable that is. Or sex,' Harry added thoughtfully.

Draco hacked mid-drag. Sputtering and still coughing, he managed to choke out, '_Sex_ is a problem? For_ you_? Are you kidding?'

Harry hesitated, reluctant to elaborate. It wasn't as if it were his _partners_' fault, after all. 'I didn't mean—it's like, there's the two of you and sex, and then there's just, well, _sex_. I mean, I guess some blokes want that, and I'm not saying I _don't_, but some people are _so stupid about it_. Like you would not believe.' He paused, considering. 'I'm not making any sense, am I?'

'None whatsoever, but I agree, it sounds like a bother,' Draco said wisely. 'Glad I never bothered. I hate that word, bother. Bother bother bother. Bugger.'

'Bother,' Harry amended, glad they were off the subject. 'But, if you never bother, don't you get lonely?'

'Sometimes.' Draco didn't seem aware that he had said that aloud until Harry turned his head to look at him again, brow furrowed. Draco grinned wickedly at him. 'Nothing a good wank couldn't cure, though.'

Harry groaned, looking away and grimacing. 'I am so sorry I asked.'

'Oh, _please_. You haven't been laid in how long, Mr Bothersome?'

'Hear no Evil,' Harry pleaded.

'Even blokes with women crawling out of their _ears_ have time for the occasional wank.'

'Too much information, ' Harry chanted. '_Way_ too much information.'

'Stop being such a prude, Potter.'

'Oi,' Harry said, opening his eyes. '_Prude_? I'm sorry, Mr Malfoy, which one of us is on cuddling terms with unicorns?'

'_A_ sexual experience does not make you All Knowing. Did you just call me "mister"?'

'I've had sex more than once!'

'Sure, go on; boast _all_ you like about your collection of venereal diseases. But like you said, just because you've _had_ sex doesn't make you less of an idiot about it.'

'But the fact that you haven't _does_ make you an idiot about it, so sod off.'

'Hey,' Draco said, waggling a finger at him, 'there are lots of people who'd love to shag me.'

'Right,' Harry said, voice thick with sarcasm. 'I'm sure they form queues to get into your trousers.'

'Fuck you,' Draco said, with an arrogant sniff. 'I could go off and have sex whenever I felt like it.'

'Yeah, well, perhaps if you lowered your standards to realistic proportions you'd have something to brag about,' Harry remarked, giving him a look.

Draco glared at him. 'You know,' he said stiffly, 'I'm not really as shallow as you like to think I am.'

Harry squinted at him, and then he frowned. 'Shit,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. I can be very, very shallow sometimes. Most of the time, actually. And usually on purpose.'

Harry shook his head fervently. 'No, no, no, I am,' he insisted. 'That was a real cuntish thing to say.'

'I've said worse about you.'

'Doesn't make it okay.'

'No,' Draco agreed, 'I suppose it doesn't. But you don't have to be sorry about it.'

Harry looked back up at the stars. 'But I want to be,' he said. 'I am sorry, about a lot of things.'

'You're always sorry. For everything.'

'So?'

'So,' Draco persisted, 'that's a lot to be sorry for. And that's not fair, you know, you having to be sorry all the time.'

'Somebody has to be sorry.'

'Says who?'

'If nobody is sorry, then nobody cares. If nobody cares, there's no point.'

'No point in what?'

'Anything.'

Draco gave him a long look, eyes glazed. 'You're depressing,' he said finally.

'Sorry?' Harry offered.

'Stop that,' Draco ordered. 'Anyway, you're right. I think. Thanks for that.'

'You're welcome. But only because you showed me the Magical Ways of the Shrivelled Figs.'

'_Shrivelfig__,_ you twit.'

'See, there you go with the insults again. You can't be nice for even ten seconds.'

'I'm being nice,' Draco protested. 'I showed you the Magical Ways of the Shrivelled Figs, didn't I?'

'How do you think magic would feel—if it _had_ feelings, mind you—and you called it names? Would you call magic a twit?'

'It wasn't an insult. It was a… pet name. I sneer because I care, Potter.'

Harry snorted. 'Sure you do.'

'I do!' Draco said indignantly. 'What the fuck am I doing here, in the middle of this gods-forsaken wasteland, if I don't care about you and your bloody insane crusade? I care! I am the epitome of caring.'

'Bullshit. You're here because I made you come here. You don't care. You don't even _like_ me.'

'Well,' Draco said, pausing, 'that's not _entirely_ true.'

: : :

Ron had intended to go back to Africa as soon as Hermione was cleared at St Mungo's. He didn't like the idea of Harry being alone, and especially not with Draco Malfoy. It wasn't that he was worried about what Malfoy what might do—he had, in fact, been quite useful so far—but that if and when the going got rough, _really_ rough, Malfoy would do something stupid and nearly die, and then Harry would do something even more stupid like save him and get hurt or killed in the process. Ron wanted to be there, at Harry's back. It was what best friends were for, after all.

He was just leaving his cubicle when, from behind, Robards accosted him. 'Weasley!'

Ron winced and turned around. 'What?'

Robards peered into the cubicle, then suspiciously at Ron. 'Where's Potter?'

'Off-duty,' Ron told him. 'Injured, remember?'

'He was supposed to be back _on_ _duty_ two days ago by my count.'

Ron shrugged. 'Complications with the curse, or something. Should be fine in another couple of days.' Robards didn't look at all convinced, so Ron continued with, 'I could Floo him, if you like. I just figured you'd want to make sure he was solid before letting him back into the field; you know how he'll push himself too far before he's made a full recovery.'

That seemed to do the trick. Robards frowned; it was something Harry had done in the past. 'All right, Weasley. Just make sure he's one-hundred percent before you let him back in here. And in the meantime,' he added before Ron could escape, shoving a file at him, 'start looking into this.'

He left Ron standing there with the file, and while Ron had every intention of tossing it onto his desk for tomorrow and going to check on Hermione, the little dark-grey tab on the label stilled him. It wasn't a colour you saw often on a file in MLE. It was the colour that marked the Department of Mysteries.

Unspeakables usually kept their problems to themselves. What they worked with was so top-secret they couldn't risk outsiders getting involved unless absolutely necessary—which, by their definition, meant nothing short of murder.

Ron flipped open the file and began to read.

: : :

_I'm still here because  
I've got nothing else to do  
You're an asshole but  
I'm getting used to you_

: : :

'Was that a come on?'

'If it was,' Draco said, the edge of his mouth forming a sharp valley in his cheek, 'would you say no?'

'No, but if it's not a come on, it wouldn't matter if I said yes, would it?'

There was a pause as Draco's eyes stared into nothing, unfocused. 'You've lost me,' he admitted finally, frowning.

'I've lost me, too,' Harry said, furrowing his brow. 'Shit. Pass me yours, will you? I'm out.'

Draco sat up a bit, exhaling, and handed Harry the remainder of his joint. 'I've turned you into an addict,' he said, amused. 'Lucky for you, black lungs are easily remedied with magic.'

'I _love_ magic,' Harry agreed, and took a long drag. 'Feels _good_.'

'Better than sex?'

'Very much better than sex.' Harry paused, considering. 'Was probably just bad sex, though, so don't take my word for it.'

'I still can't believe _you_ are complaining about sex, of all things.' Draco tilted his head back, eyes wide-open, mirroring tiny, white, pin-prick constellations. 'Guess it is a bit of a bother, though. Bother. Bother bother bother,' he said, and chuckled quietly. 'Are we out? You smoked it all, didn't you?' Draco scoffed at him. 'Selfish bastard.'

'There's plenty more over there.'

'But it isn't _cut_,' Draco whined. '_Or_ dried. And it's in the _jungle_. There could be lions and tigers and, oh my, cockroaches the size of _Hippogriffs_ in there.'

'I don't think Africa has tigers. Or Hippogriff-sized cockroa— What are you doing?'

Draco had suddenly shoved his hand deep into Harry's jeans pocket, digging furiously. It tickled a little. 'Wand,' Draco said by way of explanation. 'Light. We need _light_. There are Things in the Dark,' he continued a bit hysterically. 'I can hear them _breathing_. And they're going to _eat us_ if we don't _do_ something. We need—_yes,_ ha ha! _Light_!'

With a blinding flash, Draco had found Harry's wand and cast a hasty _Lumos_, washing them both in a pale, blueish glow. Only about three feet around their persons was visible in the pitch black.

'Ow,' remarked Harry slightly belatedly, blinking furiously. 'You _do _have your _own_ wand, remember.'

'We're Doomed,' Draco declared dramatically, ignoring him. He waved Harry's wand for emphasis. '_Doomed_, Potter. We're going to be eaten by Things in the Dark, and when Granger returns she will find our bones and write a novel about our epic adventure of tragedy. _"And there they lay," _she'll write, _"their pitiful, gnawed remains, stripped right down to the bone by the Hippogriffian Cockroaches of the Congo, not a single scrap left for the vultures that circled on high. Alas! Here ended the Journey of Truth and Justice, in which Evil prevailed because our Heroes were too inebriated to fight back against the Mandibles of Doom that came upon them in the Night."_'

'Mandibles of Doom?'

'Hey, it could happen.'

Draco extinguished Harry's wand and dropped onto his back again, his shoulder cuffing Harry, who might have cared if he weren't quite so lethargic, or something. Without anything to occupy their hands, their arms had fallen between them and their fingers were touching, sometimes entwining, though Harry only noticed when they came apart by accident.

Draco, it seemed, was too high to notice anything besides the sound of his own voice; he had not stopped talking since the first drag, and his carefree ramble had become a sort of cushion for Harry's mind, which felt like it was floating somewhere above his head, slowly beginning to sink.

'I'm knackered,' Harry announced, peeling off his glasses and tossing them aside.

'If you fall asleep, I will be forced to draw funny things on your face to save myself from succumbing to boredom,' Draco warned.

'Bother,' said Harry. His night-vision had mostly returned and—since when had they got so close?—he could see Draco was looking at him again. 'You're insufferable, you know that?'

'Insufferable in a good way, or a bad way?'

'_Is_ there a good way?'

'Well, if there was, which would I be?'

Harry thought hard. 'You used to be the bad kind,' he said after a while. 'I think you're the good kind now, though.'

'Yeah? What changed?'

Harry turned his head to look at him. 'I dunno. Does it matter?'

Draco shrugged. 'It might. Maybe I didn't change. Maybe _you_ changed.'

'Maybe we both changed.'

'Maybe nobody changed,' Draco suggested. 'Maybe wewere just being stupid.'

Their fingers were entwined again. 'Maybe,' Harry agreed. 'We _were_ a bit stupid.'

Draco looked up at the sky again and shifted a little closer. Harry wasn't sure if it was intentional, and at that moment, he didn't care. He felt Draco's thumb moving, idly tracing a small line up and down his palm.

'You're still a bit stupid,' Draco said after a moment. Then he smirked. 'I mean, come on, if _Harry bloody Potter_ can't manage a decent sex life, what hope is there for the rest of us mere mortals?'

'Piss off,' Harry said, without much conviction. 'You make it sound like I could just walk into a pub and hold auditions for shags, or something.'

'Couldn't you?' Draco asked, with surprisingly genuine incredulity. 'Fuck, if I were you, _I _would.'

'Would you?'

'Probably not,' Draco admitted, his smirk softening. 'I could organise something for you when we get back, though, if you like. Assuming nothing eats us between now and then.'

'If I ever get that desperate, you'll be the first to know,' Harry promised him, rolling his eyes. In the absence of anything further to smoke, he could feel the high slipping away from him, faster and faster as the night wore on. Or, at least, he was suddenly intensely aware of Draco's form beside him, hand in his own, and wasn't sure exactly how it had happened.

'We could organise it for charity,' Draco continued, oblivious. Either he was still high, or too tired to tell the difference. His thumb was still tracing Harry's lifeline, moving in time with the slow rise and fall of his chest. 'Raise gold for widows and orphans.'

'Widows and orphans?'

'I'm sure there's bound to be some around. Big bloody war, and all.'

'Donations work,' Harry pointed out.

'You're no fun, has anyone ever told you that?' Draco demanded, turning his head to look at him. 'Come on, Potter. Widows and orphans!'

'You're not whoring me out for gold,' Harry told him. 'Not even for widows and orphans.'

'No fun,' Draco repeated, muttering, looking back up at the sky. 'Not daring _at all_. Horrible excuse for a Gryffindor.'

'I was almost in Slytherin,' Harry remarked absently.

Draco's thumb paused, resting lightly against his palm. He was looking at Harry again, his eyes wide, displaying a fascinating combination of desaturated blue and grey Harry had never seen before. 'Come again?'

'I was almost Sorted into Slytherin,' Harry repeated. 'I mean, the Hat was trying to convince me how good I'd do in Slytherin, and I wasn't having it.'

'Why the hell would it want to put _you_ in Slytherin?'

'Said I had talent, and a thirst to prove myself, or some bollocks,' Harry said, shrugging. 'Anyway, I told it no. Not Slytherin. So it put me into Gryffindor.'

'You told it _no_?' Draco was staring at Harry like he'd never seen him before. 'What—_why _would you tell it _no_?'

'I didn't want to be in Slytherin.'

'Why not? You could have—we would have been bloody _Housemates_, d'you realise that?'

'Well, maybe I didn't want to be Housemates with you. And Hagrid and Ron'd told me all about how every witch or wizard who went bad was in Slytherin.'

Draco scowled. 'Well Weasley would, wouldn't he?'

'What's that supposed to mean? He was right, wasn't he?'

'I'll have you know there are _plenty_ of supporters of the Dark Lord who were not in Slytherin,' Draco said; there was a sharp, unfriendly edge to his voice, now. 'And plenty of witches and wizards who _were_ who did not, in fact, turn out to be crazy terrorists. Look at Slughorn, for crying out loud. He's no Snape, sure, but not many potions masters can brew a batch of flawless Felix Felicis.'

'All right, fair enough. But I was _eleven_,' Harry continued defensively. 'How was I supposed to know? I'd been raised by Muggles.'

'I _offered_ to help you,' Draco pointed out. His thumb was still stationary, and Harry found himself focusing unnecessarily on it, willing it to move; Draco was rigid against him now, and it was uncomfortable. 'You told me to piss off, as I recall.'

'You weren't exactly friendly about it.'

'Neither were you.'

'Neither of us were friendly,' Harry agreed. 'But I'm trying to be friendly now.'

Draco snorted. 'Ten years too late?'

'Better late than never?'

Draco sighed heavily, the rigid wall of his shoulder sagging against Harry's. His thumb did move then, as Draco rearranged his hand, lacing their fingers together, and gave a single, firm squeeze. 'Better,' he agreed. He closed his eyes, then smirked. 'I can't believe you were almost in fucking Slytherin. That would have been _brilliant_.'

'I don't regret it, telling the Hat no,' Harry felt obligated to point out, turning his gaze back to the sky. When Draco stiffened against him, Harry returned the pressure on his hand and continued, 'I do regret telling you to piss off, though.'

Draco relaxed, hesitantly at first, before effectively melting against Harry. It was almost uncomfortable, but not quite. He was silent for several long minutes, and Harry had just begun to think he'd fallen asleep when he spoke again.

'Thank you,' Draco said. His voice was soft and slow; he wasn't asleep, not yet, but he was more than halfway there. 'Truce?'

'Yeah,' Harry said after a moment, leaning into the warmth again. 'Truce.'

: : :

Blaise stood by the stable doors, waiting. Watching. He could see, under the muted light of the moon, the four figures out on the racetrack. Only whispers of their voices reached his ears, and the echo of an agitated whinny, all drowned into nonsense by the incessant shuffling of horses and pegasi housed in the barn behind him.

They must know he was here, surely. Well, not _right_ here, but present on the grounds. Rabastan had been floating around the party, after all. Blaise had watched him leave under the escort of one Carlotta Ouellet. Bellatrix and her husband hadn't shown their faces inside the Palazzo; they had been out here, waiting for Narcissa's habitual nightly visit, something Rabastan must have learned of through his father.

Well, _great_. Blaise knew he was a fairly capable wizard, but there wasn't much he could hope to do against _that_ trio. Even with the help of Lupin—who was, no doubt, somewhere nearby, hiding in the grounds with his wolf-nose—there wouldn't be anything they could do, not if Bellatrix decided to take her sister then and there.

If she did, he never found out. Fire lanced up and down his left arm, the pain coming on so suddenly he heard himself gasp before he could bite back the noise. Cradling his arm against his stomach, he cast one last look at the circuit; the four figures still had not moved. If Narcissa was in any sort of immediate danger, she wasn't letting on.

He didn't have time to wait around either way. Gripping the mark through his robes and gritting his teeth, Blaise closed his eyes and turned quickly, Disapparating with a _snap_.

: : :

_Silence. Darkness. The world was mute, monochrome, the landscape nothing but vague, oblique shades of grey. Only the Scent held colour, shining golden against the background, twisting and curling and stretching far-off and out of sight into the distance. _

_From the darkness, snarling shadows unfurled. Across countless cities, across two seas, across ruins, wilds, pyramids, desert and jungle, they followed it towards their freedom._

Harry awoke with a start.

The pink light of the African dawn was still stretching over the horizon like a cat, slowly bathing the camp in a dull, grey light. The air was cool, but Harry found he was rather warm. That possibly had something to do with the fact that Draco was still wedged against his side, their hands and fingers still tangled together.

Huh. Draco was usually up and about long before Harry had any hope of regaining consciousness. Was it that early, still? Harry felt like he'd slept a week. Another benefit of the Magical Way of the Shrivelled Figs, he supposed.

It occurred to Harry he had never yet seen Draco asleep. He was on his back, curled in slightly, head turned to the side, resting his forehead against Harry's shoulder. The sharp lines of his face were smoothed by the soft light, and to Harry he looked about five years younger. Only he really had grown into that absurdly pointy nose, and he would have been easily mistakable for a rather pretty girl if not for the definitive line of his jaw and cheekbones, each sharply curving, respectively, into a prominent chin and brow.

Harry felt the tightness in his jeans and resisted the urge to fidget. He didn't want to wake Draco up; not yet. But it had been a while—almost a year now, _fuck_—and his libido wasn't listening.

Harry closed his eyes, willing his body to calm down. He knew Draco was a looker—he'd noticed _that_ sometime around sixth year, when he'd been spending more time than was healthy following the prick around. Four years' isolation had done nothing to diminish his looks, but Draco had never been an object of desire because everything Harry had known about him had been a turn off, always some combination of nasty, arrogant, cowardly and cruel.

But now, while Draco was definitely still arrogant and more than occasionally nasty, Harry had seen a lot more courage and a lot less cruelty.

Harry turned his gaze up to the warming sky and remembered the look on Draco's face when Harry had told him he'd almost been sorted into Slytherin, and smiled; Harry had never told anyone about that, aside from Dumbledore. Not even his friends. But then, last night he'd said a lot of things he'd never said to anyone.

_Last night_. Damn. Harry wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't always as oblivious as Hermione liked to believe. He knew when someone was hitting on him, and Draco had been flirting with him all night. Come to think about it, Draco had been flirting with him for a while now. And after the way Draco had acted the morning following that row, a memory Harry only had fragmented flashes of, Harry had sought out the assistance of a Pensieve. Ever since then, he realised... ever since Draco had had an idea of Harry's inclinations...

Harry realised that Draco was lonely; he had been lonely for four long years locked away in the Manor, and probably the entire year before. Harry could understand that. Harry had been lonely his entire life. He'd had Ron and Hermione through Hogwarts and onwards, but not in the way that they had each other.

But Blaise had been lonely, too, and Harry still wanted to punch him in the face every time he saw him.

Scowling, Harry rolled slowly to his right, unsure and somewhat unwilling to break the tangled connection of hands between them. He rested on his side and hesitated, leaning half-over Draco; the breeze was picking up, causing Draco's hair to flutter haphazardly around his face. Harry reached out with two fingers and slid the strands back across his cheek to tuck behind his ear.

At the touch, Draco grabbed his wrist and opened his eyes in one movement, the long line of his body tensing.

'Er,' said Harry. And then, a little more softly, 'Hey.'

Draco blinked at him. 'Hey,' he echoed warily. His eyes darted from side to side quickly before focusing back on Harry. He still had a death-grip on Harry's wrist. 'You know,' he drawled, voice still hoarse with sleep, 'it's generally considered proper etiquette to buy one dinner, first.'

Harry frowned. Draco let go of him and, released, Harry quickly sat up. Draco struggled up onto his elbows, and peered at the sky. 'Or in this case, breakfast. Bloody hell, what time do you call this?'

'Morning.' Bill's voice was like a foghorn, and Harry started, kicking up dust. 'You lot hungry?'

Ten feet away, Bill was sitting astride his horse, and over his lap was the carcass of something the size of a large dog, with two short, curved black horns and thick black stripes across its back. Harry staggered to his feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and blinked furiously for a moment until he realised he'd misplaced his glasses.

'Hold still, you twit.' Harry blinked again, and forced himself not to shy away; Draco came sharply into focus as he slipped Harry's glasses over his eyes, fingertips not lingering any longer than necessary. 'I almost stood on them. And yes, Weasley. Starved. What is that?'

'Gazelle.' Harry saw the look on Bill's face as his gaze moved between them, and silently cursed. He would have noticed, wouldn't he, having been up before either of them. Bill was as trustworthy and dependable as anyone Harry knew, but he was still Ron's brother. Those scars, however faint, were a constant reminder of what Draco had done, inadvertently or not. No matter how friendly Bill might be acting, Harry knew it was for his benefit alone. 'Malfoy, would you mind tending to the camp? I'll need Harry's help with this.'

He caught Harry's eye, and Harry nodded. Yeah, they needed a word.

: : :

'I hope you know what you're doing.'

Harry prodded the blooming fire with unnecessary ferocity. Bill was behind him, slashing at the gazelle with a large knife, Vanishing the inedible parts with his wand as he cleaned the carcass. Draco was out of earshot on the other side of the fire, taking down the wards Bill had erected the night before, and spelling the tent none of them had bothered to use back into the bag Hermione had left with them.

'Yeah, me too.'

'You do realise how this looks?' Bill asked at his back.

Harry sighed, dropped the stick and stood up, turning around to face him. 'What the hell is that supposed to mean?' he demanded. 'I figured you, of all people—I mean, with Charlie—'

'You know that's not what I meant,' Bill interrupted shortly, giving him a look.

'Then what? Because it's him?' Harry asked, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 'There isn't—nothing is going on,' he said, truthfully. 'Not yet. Maybe not at all. What does it matter, anyway?'

'Harry,' Bill said patiently, skinning the meat before flinging the hide away. 'Think about it. It's one thing for you to give him sanctuary, to cooperate with him in exchange for information, but to—' Bill sighed, dropping the knife and beginning to remove the dirt from the carcass with his wand before looking back up at Harry. 'I think you're letting him get too close, is all.'

Harry frowned. 'You think he's a spy.'

'Is it really that hard to believe?' Carcass cleaned, Bill attached it to the makeshift spit he'd Transfigured and hoisted it over the fire. 'And even if he's not—well, like you said. It's _him_.'

'You don't even know him!'

'I know enough,' Bill said fiercely. 'And I knew his father. And I know you. Purists like the Malfoys... they don't give a shit about anyone except themselves. They only tolerate other people they can use, and once they've got what they want, they forget about you. Or worse.'

'He's not working for Voldemort,' Harry said, and felt a tiny twinge of gratification when Bill winced. 'And if you're worried about him using me otherwise, well, frankly, that's none of your damn business.'

Bill studied the fire for a moment before turning back to look at him. 'Harry, I'm really not trying to be a pillock about this. I'm just worried about you. We all are.'

Harry sighed and sat down, staring at the flames. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I know. But you need to trust me.'

'I do. We all do. That doesn't mean we can't worry.'

'He's not a spy,' Harry went on. 'He's just scared, I think. And tired of it.' He picked the stick back up and began peeling the thin bark away. 'At least, I mean—I don't—I just think he's not who we all thought he was.'

Bill raised both eyebrows. 'Yeah? Then who is he?'

Harry looked up at him and shrugged. 'I'll let you know when I figure that out.'

'At this rate, it's going to be lunch by the time we eat.'

Harry started as Draco appeared behind them, dropping Hermione's bag on the ground beside Harry. Bill gave him a long look before setting to work spelling the fire up, engorging the flames so the meat would cook faster.

Draco sat down next to Harry as Bill made his way around the fire methodically, prodding it with his wand. 'What crawled up his trousers and died?'

If Draco had heard any of their previous conversation, he didn't let on. Harry relaxed and shrugged. 'Dunno. Maybe the way of his shrivelled figs wasn't as magical as ours.'

Draco snorted quietly and brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Faint, slightly raised lines were still visible from the wounds the lion had inflicted upon him a few days before. The pink light of the rising sun and the orange light of the flames turned his hair a bright, soft gold that made Harry squint when he looked at him.

'Yes. About that,' Draco said finally, turning to look at him. He was backlit by the sun, his expression cast in shadow. 'How much do you remember, this time?'

Harry looked back at the fire. 'All of it.'

Draco followed his gaze to the flames, the light revealing his eyes; narrow and dark, not unfriendly, but cautious. 'And?'

'And,' Harry said, placing his arms behind him and leaning back, 'I think I'll worry about it later, if we manage to survive long enough for it to matter.'

'Are you always so optimistic?'

'Hermione's the optimist,' Harry said, looking at him. 'I always just assume that whatever it is, I've probably already survived worse.'

: : :

Hermione was fidgeting. Luna had, somehow, convinced her that this was a good idea. The right thing to do. After all, one thing to be said for Ginny was that she kept a level head in a crisis. How else would she have dated Harry for so long? The poor guy was a walking catastrophe waiting to happen.

Or something.

'Luna, really, thanks for everything, but I really ought to be going... I've got work in the morning, and I've made an appointment over lunch with a maternity Healer to discuss my options, and it's already late.'

'It's six o'clock,' Luna pointed out reasonably. 'Ginevra will be home in exactly sixteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds. Would you like another scone?'

Hermione glared at her. 'I have things to do, and I would like to turn in early. And that's just ridiculous. How could you possibly be _that_ precise?'

'Practice is over at five-thirty,' Luna explained. 'Ginevra always spends exactly thirty minutes in the showers, and then exactly fifteen minutes going around the back to avoid Zacharias, and the other one minute and twenty-seven seconds—'

Apparating to some unknown, pre-arranged point to check a pre-designated spot, under a stone or inside a hollow tree trunk, and then Apparating back home. Every time Blaise came to see Ginny, they set up a new point to exchange messages, or whatever it was they exchanged. It was safer that way, to change the location every time. You couldn't be too careful.

Hermione had another scone and sipped her tea, which was just turning lukewarm. She _was_ going to tell Ron... once Harry and Draco were back safe, once Ron was done with whatever assignment had sent him running off down the hall and into a lift headed for Level Ten.

She _was_ going to tell him. When they all had _time_.

Ginny came home exactly sixteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, though Hermione couldn't be too sure about the seconds because she kept getting distracted by the thunderous sound of her heartbeat in her ears.

She came into the sitting room looking exhausted, her long red hair dark, still wet from a recent shower. She collapsed on the sofa across from Hermione with closed eyes and sighed heavily. Luna placed a fresh cup of tea in her waiting hands.

'Thanks,' Ginny said, opening her eyes. She saw Hermione sitting across from her, paled, and sat up so quickly she sent tea sloshing onto the floor. 'What is it?'

'Nothing,' Hermione said quickly, offering a weak smile. Ginny visibly relaxed; unexpected visits in these times, Hermione realised belatedly, often signalled the worst. 'Sorry. I didn't plan on staying. But Luna—'

'Hermione's been having a very interesting day,' Luna said brightly, standing to leave. She offered Hermione a rather stern, unblinking stare. '_Very_ interesting. I'll go and start dinner while you fill each other in.'

They both watched her go, Hermione in exasperation and Ginny with a mild smirk. 'She's rather forward,' Ginny apologised. 'Says life's too short for small talk. Anyway, what's up?'

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. Ginny was giving her that same direct stare that Luna had when she'd first come over. The girl was spending way too much time with her unblinking flatmate.

'Hermione,' Ginny prodded. 'Out with it.'

Hermione told her.

Ginny just looked at her; her mouth formed a funny shape, as if unsure whether to smile or scowl. Finally she looked at the floor and let out a long, slow breath before looking back up.

'That's so funny,' Ginny said, a rueful smirk playing at her lips, 'I was just about to tell you the same thing.'

: : :

Draco felt the edge of the reserve long before they saw it.

Not that there was any distinguishable boundary. It was just more jungle inside of more jungle lost in a world of jungles, but Draco could feel it coming. Any wizard worth his salt could have felt that a mile away.

Bill seemed to have noticed it, too. He glanced at Harry, who dismounted swiftly at his look, pulling out his wand; Bill followed suit, patting his restless horse briskly on the neck. Draco snorted softly and pawed the ground with his front hooves, then they crept forward, Draco in the lead, head down and ears back, nostrils flaring. Bill had been right—the magic here was so thick it was suffocating; it was like trying to walk through pudding. Hot, oily, sizzling pudding.

Draco paused at the threshold, tail swishing nervously. It was likely that the magical field was simply caused by the decades-old wards put in place to protect the reserve—to keep the magical animals in, and to keep Muggles out—but walking headlong into it probably wasn't a good idea.

Harry kept walking purposefully ahead, and Draco almost didn't catch him in time.

'What the hell!'

Draco winced, and then realised he had in fact tackled Harry while he was a horse, and would have laughed at the absurdity of the situation if the jungle before them hadn't been causing his horse-brain to reel and urge him to bolt.

Changing back quickly, he pushed away from Harry. 'Can't you _feel_ that, Potter?'

'Feel what?'

Draco stared at him, then cursed at his own stupidity. Of course he couldn't feel it. _Half-blood._

'Never mind,' Draco said, and turned to Bill. 'This is your department, Weasley.'

'I don't know about that,' Bill said uneasily. 'This entire thing is a department all in itself. I'll see what I can do.'

'What—' Harry started.

'Shut up, Potter,' Draco responded automatically. At Harry's mutinous expression, he indicated Bill with a nod. 'He needs to concentrate.'

Bill had his wand out, and began drawing complicated symbols in mid-air with it. They would glow briefly blue in the light before disappearing, so quickly that it took Draco a moment to recognise the specific runes.

After a few minutes, when the last of the runes had faded, Bill glanced at the two of them. 'It seems safe enough to go in,' he said. 'But we should take our time, and check at regular intervals. You know how to do the Aperies charm?'

They both nodded. Bill, satisfied, nodded in return. 'Ministry procedure is to check at least every fifty feet, but with the three of us, let's make it every three metres.' They nodded again, and Harry made to move forward, but Bill halted him with a firm hand on his arm. 'I mean it, Harry. If the charm detects anything—anything at all, no matter how small—you let me know. We've lost Cursebreakers three decades your senior because they overlooked a tiny detail.'

Harry shrugged his arm free. 'Yeah, all right. I'm not an idiot.'

'That remains to be seen,' Draco muttered softly, moving past them.

'I heard that.'

They progressed on foot, it being both safer and easier to check for anything nasty along the way. Bill had removed the tack from his horse and left the animal loose at the border; inside, the magic would make it too nervous to be of any use. Draco understood as soon as they were over the threshold; the magic emanating from the jungle around them made it feel, if possible, even hotter. The sun overhead was completely obscured by the tall canopy. The undergrowth was fortunately sparse aside from protruding roots and a thick layer of moss, moist from the humidity.

They made good progress, as far as Draco could tell, despite the frequent pauses in which to cast the Aperies charm to check for any unfriendly wards or spells in their way. Aside from the very potent Muggle-repelling charms and the boundary wards, the only magic they had come across was that occurring purely as an effect of the life-force of so many magical animals in an enclosed space.

A sudden trill of activity broke the eerie silence of the jungle. Draco flattened himself against a nearby tree and Harry hit the ground, crouching on all fours. The noise overhead was deafening, a hurricane of yelps and hoots and whistles, and it took Draco a moment to realise Bill was still standing in the open, laughing at them.

'Just clabberts,' Bill shouted over the noise, grinning.

Wincing at the racket, Harry struggled to his feet. Draco carefully disentangled himself from the tree, brushing himself off. Looking up, he could just make out a blur of green and rustling leaves—one of the creatures paused to ogle down at them, and saw the mottled green skin of the monkey-like animal, a dull white pustule on the top of its head.

'Clabberts,' Harry repeated, once the pack of monkeys had moved on, taking the noise with them. 'Brilliant. Anything else you want to tell us about before they give us a heart attack?'

'Are you kidding?' Bill said, still grinning like an idiot. 'There's literally dozens of magical species in this country alone, let alone this continent. Don't worry, though,' he said at the look of alarm on Harry's face, 'most of them are relatively harmless. And there's not likely to be many non-magical animals in here, aside from insects; the magic makes them nervous.'

'They're not the only ones,' Draco muttered, mostly to himself. Harry and Bill, apparently not hearing him, pressed on; glancing up swiftly at the dappled canopy in prayer, Draco followed them.

: : :

From what Harry understood of Bill's scanning spells, the reserve didn't seem very big. They could easily track across it in as little as a couple of hours. Harry was willing to bet that if Voldemort had hidden something here, it would be right at the centre. Using the Four-Point spell, they headed deeper inward.

Along the way, Harry saw more magical creatures than he had over five years' worth of classes at Hogwarts; a small posse of Nifflers, dashing through the undergrowth, pausing to nibble at the buckle on Bill's boots; off in the distance by a watering hole they spied an Erumpent, one of the massive, rhinoceros-like creatures that boasted an enormous, explosive horn; the canopy above them occasionally sported an assortment of Fwoopers, neon-coloured, parrot-like birds that sang beautiful songs that, if you listened long enough, would drive you mad; a flock of Diricawls, which surprised Harry, who, having grown up as a Muggle, had thought the dodo was a non-magical creature and extinct. Bill explained that, actually, Diricawls were most definitely magical and could vanish in a puff of feathers at will and reappear elsewhere.

The most impressive creature they saw, however, stopped Harry in his tracks.

'Oh, wow,' said Draco, following his gaze up.

Perched regally in a high tree in front of them was the largest phoenix Harry had ever seen. It looked down on them curiously with fiery, orange eyes, cocking its head, its long, golden crest sweeping down its back.

'It's bigger than Fawkes,' Harry felt compelled to point out. And it was, almost twice his size.

'That's because it's a female,' Bill said. He was lowering his pack to the ground slowly and disentangling a small, portable camera from inside. Harry looked at him quizzically and Bill whispered, 'Try not to startle her—do you have any idea how rare female phoenixes are?'

He managed to get a couple of shots before the phoenix, growing bored, spread her wings and drifted away, a flaming kite amongst the bright green trees.

'We need to be careful,' Bill said as he put the camera away and they headed on. 'Magical jungles are very similar to non-magical ones; the most dangerous stuff tends to come out at night.'

Harry didn't think anything could possibly be more dangerous than anything else he'd seen in his life so far. 'Like what?'

'In this area, there's tons,' Bill admitted. 'But there's the top three: Tebos, Lethifolds, and Nundu.'

'Nundu?' Harry knew he'd heard the term before.

'Giant leopards.' It was Draco, this time, who explained. 'They spread pestilence. Their breath is toxic—and like normal leopards, they're nocturnal.'

'How giant are we talking?'

'Nothing's confirmed,' Bill said. 'Generally speaking, at least five times the size of a normal leopard's what I've heard, but the only Nundu ever to be subdued was about the size of the Great Hall.' Harry blinked at him. 'Took over a hundred qualified wizards, too.'

'Well, at least we'll see it coming,' Harry said faintly.

'Dunno about that, either,' Bill said. 'They're stealthy bastards, despite their size. I've only seen one once since I started this job, and it infected an entire village with a deadly plague just by passing by while the wind was blowing. Killed over thirty Muggles. And that was a young one.'

'Killed them all?' Harry asked, horrified. 'Wasn't there anything you could have—'

'Antidotes require part of the poison,' Bill reminded him. 'Without hunting down a Nundu... we'd have lost more wizards than Muggles if we'd tried.'

The light filtering down through the trees had been growing steadily dimmer, the thick canopy making it even darker and casting deep, menacing shadows throughout the jungle around them. Bill had warned them against using artificial light unless absolutely necessary, lest they attract unwanted attention, but soon they would have no choice.

Harry felt like he was being flanked. Draco was keeping pace just behind him to his right, and Bill respectively on his left. It was unnerving, because Harry knew Draco was paying more attention to him than to the jungle around them, and he knew Bill was paying more attention to Draco likewise, in case he was Up To Something. This made it very difficult for Harry to concentrate on the jungle, which he knew he had to do, otherwise they might be murdered by invisible warthogs or gigantic leopards.

Harry promptly forgot about all of this when he next looked up, and he didn't even realise he'd stopped until Draco walked into him.

'Ow, damn it all,' Draco said, then followed his gaze and shut up.

It was the biggest tree Harry had ever seen. Standing so close to its base, he felt like he was standing in the shadow of a large building. The tree's trunk had to be at least the width of a large house, and about five storeys tall, with branches unlike any Harry had seen before.

'That's a big one,' Bill said, stopping beside them.

'What the hell is it?' Draco asked in an awestruck voice.

Bill pulled a face; he'd been less friendly towards Draco since that morning, and had avoided talking to him directly on their entire journey through the reserve. When Harry gave him a look, though, he sighed and said, 'Baobab tree—tree of life, Muggles call them, or the upside-down tree. Oldest non-magical living things in the world.'

'That's incredible,' Harry said.

'It's bloody massive.' Draco, still staring up at the tree in undisguised wonder, had started making his way around to the far side, eyes travelling over the building-sized trunk.

'It's a bit weird, though,' Bill continued after a few moments. 'They usually grow in clumps, not on their own like this.'

'You know what else is a bit weird,' Harry said, staring at his wand where it lay flat on his palm. When Bill looked at him, he showed it to him. 'We're dead centre.'

'Weasley!' Draco's voice called from the other side of the tree; with a look at one another, they made their way to him, finding him standing stationary, eyes still cast upward.

'What is it?'

Draco, eyes unmoving, pointed. Harry and Bill followed his gaze.

It was a moment before Bill said, 'Well, fuck.'

: : :

In the now near-complete darkness of the forest, the blue light of their _Lumoses_ was blinding. The long claw marks gouged in the trunk of the tree were further elongated by the shadows they created; the entrance to the hollow trunk looked like a massive, black wound.

Harry went in first, with Bill at his heels. Draco didn't actually start climbing up towards the hollow until they'd both clambered inside. The entrance wasn't high off the ground—maybe ten feet—and the bark was rough and splintery around the edges, as if it had been used as an abnormally large scratching post.

The hollow inside looked bigger than Harry's flat and dipped downward, easily dropping back to ground level; probably deeper, judging by the moist feel of the earth. It smelled, oddly enough, like a barn. It was warm and mostly dry, the ground deeply layered in a collection of soft, dry leaves and bark.

There were also the skeletal remains of what looked like large herd animals, bones scraped clean, the larger ones broken open and sucked clean of marrow.

'Merlin's pants, it's a _nest_,' Bill breathed, looking caught between terror and fascination.

'A nest,' Draco repeated, deadpan. 'Well, this is a _lovely_ holiday you've taken me on, Potter, but I'm knackered and in dire need of a bath, so whenever you're ready to go—'

'Shh,' Harry admonished. 'Bill, it's got to be here. It's got to be. This is _perfect_.'

'Perfect?' Draco echoed from somewhere in the darkness behind them. 'If by "perfect" you mean "death trap" then, yes, you'd have a point.'

'Death trap is right,' Bill agreed, his expression suddenly serious. 'We can't linger here. When this thing comes back—'

'Death trap is sort of his style, if you've forgotten,' Harry reminded them bitterly. 'Bill, please, at least take a look.'

Bill held his gaze for a moment, and then sighed the sigh of the defeated. 'All right, all right. Just—be ready to get the hell out of here in a hurry.'

He began drawing complicated signs in the air with his wand, the runes blazing blue before disappearing. Harry crouched down and began to dig in Hermione's bag, looking for anything they might need. He decided not to take the cloak—he couldn't see why he'd need it, and the risk of losing it here was too great. After rooting through a small library's worth of books his fingers closed on the hilt of something cold and firm; pulling his hand out, he extracted a short, slightly curved sword that he'd never seen before.

'Give it here,' Draco said from somewhere over his shoulder. Harry turned and looked questioningly up at him, into the light of his wand. 'It's Zabini's. He gave it to me at the Palazzo. Well, lent it to me. And sort of forgot to take it back.'

'Do you even know how to use it?' Harry asked dubiously.

Draco gave him a look. 'Of course I know how to use it, you complete tit,' he said as Harry handed it over. 'The pointy end goes in the thing you want to kill.'

Harry rolled his eyes and set back to searching the bag. 'The sarcasm is literally pouring off you in waves.'

'Hope you know how to swim, then.' Draco peered over his shoulder as he rummaged. 'Good lord, she's packed _everything_, hasn't she? Oh, take those,' he said, pointing. His arm, resting over Harry's shoulder, followed the line of Harry's own, lying there warm and casual. It made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck bristle. 'No, _those_, the bottles.'

'What are they?' Harry asked, pulling the tiny phials out and inspecting them; each was corked and labelled in minute handwriting.

'Pre-made potions,' Draco explained, speaking slowly as if Harry were thick. 'Twit,' he added, not unkindly. 'Blood-replenishing, Polyjuice, Dittany salve, ready-made antidote serum...'

'Thinks of everything, she does,' Harry said, impressed, as Draco pocketed the potions and stepped away. Another brief search produced nothing else of use, so he closed the bag and stood up. 'I swear, I would have died years ago if not for her.'

'And the truth comes out,' Draco drawled, leaning back against the inside of the trunk. 'Maybe she's really the Chosen One, and you're just the sorry sidekick—'

As he spoke, Bill finished casting his spell; the roots beneath Draco's feet opened, a hole appearing and sucking him into the darkness below.

'Malfoy!'

Bill, looking horrified, appeared at Harry's side, peering over the edge of the small tunnel that had appeared. It looked a lot like the passage beneath the Whomping Willow. Distantly, they heard small shuffling sounds, quickly followed by an indignant, 'Ow. _Fuck_. I _hate_ _you_, Harry Potter.'

Bill looked at Harry and raised his eyebrows. Harry grinned and called out, 'All right there, Malfoy?'

'Fuck you,' came the reply.

'Was that a yes or a no?' Bill asked, trying to hide a smile.

'Sounds fine to me,' Harry said, giving into a grin. He stood up and pocketed his wand, and then said, 'Bill, look, I think you should stay here.'

'What?' Bill looked aghast. 'Harry—'

'If that thing comes home we're going to need a head's up to get out of here in one piece,' Harry interrupted. 'You can set up wards outside, and let us know if—'

Bill seized him by the arm and pulled him aside, away from the mouth of the tunnel and out of Draco's earshot.

'Listen, Harry,' he hissed, keeping his voice low, 'I know you don't think Malfoy's playing you, but if he is—no, dammit, hear me out—_if_ he is—well, honestly, this is where I'd double-cross you, if I were him. Once you get whatever the hell it is you've come here for, well—no, just, look. I know you can take care of yourself, Harry. But there is such a thing as being too trustworthy. I just want you to be careful.'

'Of course I'll be careful,' Harry hissed back, agitated, glancing at the tunnel entrance. 'I'll worry about Malfoy,' he said, turning back to Bill, 'you just worry about that damn cat coming back.'

: : :

The tunnel was steep, but short. Harry half-tumbled out of it onto a rough stone floor. A moment later something gripped his shoulder and he nearly turned to punch it, until his brain caught up with his reflexes and reminded him that monsters generally didn't help you to your feet before biting your head off.

'Thanks,' he muttered, dusting himself off, and looked around.

The chamber was huge, or at least gave that impression. It was hard to tell, as it was quite dark and the room was full of what appeared to be hundreds of fat, stone pillars that rose from the floor to the low ceiling. They all had an artless look to them, as if they had been erected hastily with spellwork and the architect had been in too much of a rush to finish, leaving the floor and pillars unpolished and rough. The only clue that the space was man-made at all was the sheer number of them and the fact that they were all perfectly spaced, about ten feet apart, in every direction. It looked like a dark, ancient forest—even the air smelled old, musty and cool, making the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up uncomfortably.

He glanced at Draco, who took one quick look around and said, 'Well, this doesn't look foreboding at all.'

Harry smiled despite himself. 'It looks a lot like the Chamber of Secrets, actually.'

'Oh, well, that's charming,' Draco said, giving him a look of mock relief. 'After you, Hero.'

'Don't call me that,' Harry told him, without much conviction. He took a deep breath, doubled the grip on his wand, and started forward. '_Lumos_.'

The spell hardly helped, only casting a small diameter of blue light around them. Whatever stone the cavern was carved from, it reflected the feeble light in a million tiny, fragmented pin-pricks of greenish-blue. It reminded Harry of underwater light, calling to mind being in the lake at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament . The ground was damp, their feet leaving depressions in the thick layer of wet dust. Well, at least their footsteps were silent. Harry cast the Four-Point spell to make sure they knew where they were heading, and a few revealing charms, looking for booby traps. Finding none, he picked up his pace.

Draco was following behind him, wand also drawn, constantly darting glances about himself. Harry wondered if maybe he should have left him with Bill. Not because he was worried Draco might stab him in the back and make a run for it, but he might get in the way. But Draco had proved he could be useful over the past several days, hadn't he?

Well, he'd at least given them enough reasons to believe he was trustworthy. To an extent, anyway. Hell, it had been _Ron_ who suggested giving him back his wand. But that was because Draco had just saved his backside—and Hermione's. Twice, now. It was certainly lucky Draco had paid attention in Herbology… Harry had never really noticed how Draco did in classes, aside from when he was tormenting Harry or his friends. Maybe that was why he and Hermione were getting on so well. Forced to spend time in her company, he'd found they had something in common.

Unless, of course, it was all just an act.

Harry pushed away the thought. No, if Draco wanted to hurt them, to betray them, he would have done it by now. Hell, he could have let Hermione die twice now and played it off as an accident. He could have left Ron alone with that lion, run away as a horse, and looked innocent. Cowardly, but innocent.

Unless Draco had something more important he needed from them, from Harry, and all of that—the uncharacteristic friendliness, the gratitude, the selfless acts, even the flirting—had all been just to get his wand back, and to get Harry to let his guard down.

_No, stop being paranoid,_ Harry thought forcibly. He glanced back at Draco, who looked nervous but determined, and raised an eyebrow when he saw Harry looking. Harry looked forward again, shaking his head. _No_, Harry thought, _nobody could be that good an actor._

Well, except for Snape.

_Snape_. Harry gritted his teeth. He'd never thought there would be anyone he wanted to kill more than Voldemort, but he had been wrong. He didn't just want to kill Snape, he wanted to _hurt_ him. He wanted to make that bastard suffer.

Wasn't it weird, though, that Snape hadn't killed Draco when he pulled out of Voldemort's service? He'd even helped him escape—told him where to go, and who to go to for help. And he had been right about every step. Harry had helped Draco, and Draco was now in Harry's inner circle, about to help Harry recover one of Voldemort's most valuable possessions.

Could they have modified that memory Draco had shown to Harry and Lupin? The memory Dumbledore had got from Slughorn had been obviously tampered with, so Harry hadn't thought about it before, but Snape was the most talented Legilimens currently known. More talented than Voldemort, even. And if Snape had helped Draco…

It makes sense, a little voice in the back of his mind told him. Snape helped Malfoy modify the memory he showed you. This whole time, saving your friends, feeding you information, revealing a Horcrux… you trust him now, don't you? You don't even realise it, but you do. And when the time comes, when you realise you shouldn't, well, then it will be too late.

Harry's brow furrowed and he rubbed at his forehead, his head suddenly feeling hot and clouded despite the coolness of the cave.

Really, think about it, the voice continued. A little convenient, isn't it, that Malfoy and Ron got separated when you weren't looking, and then he selflessly saved Ron from a lion. That he then runs the lion right to Hermione, then turns around and saves her, too? And not a day later, happens to know the properties of a supposedly extinct species of poisonous flora, and manages to save her again? Yeah, that sounds like Malfoy. Not only save her, but convince her to go home—with your best friend, no less—leaving you both alone.

_But Bill_, thought Harry desperately._ I've got Bill—_

Bill, well, Bill's just a complication, a complication that's already been solved, since Bill isn't here now. Bill knows what Malfoy's up to, but you wouldn't listen to him, either. And as soon as you get to the Horcrux, Malfoy will have exactly what he needs to get himself back into the good graces of Voldemort—if this isn't already Voldemort's plan. Voldemort does have a history of making elaborate schemes to catch you, doesn't he? He might even already be here, waiting for you, behind the next pillar you pass, for all you know…

_No_, Harry thought wildly, _no, if Voldemort was here, I'd know it, I'd feel him, my scar—_

Voldemort knows about the connection, the voice reminded him. He could mask his presence, you know he could. Do you really think Malfoy would have come this far, put this much at stake, risked his own life, for you? Your cause?

Harry became aware that Draco had stopped walking. He turned around, and saw that Draco had stopped about ten feet prior, wincing, rubbing at his head. 'What is it?'

'I—I don't know,' Draco said, massaging his temples. He was staring, unfocused, at the floor. 'Something's... something feels off. I don't—I can't put my finger on it.'

Here it comes, the voice in Harry's head warned, any minute now, you turn your back, and it'll be the last thing you ever do…

Harry's forehead erupted suddenly in a blinding flash of pain, and he staggered, clutching his head in one hand, his wand in the other. Draco, startled by the cry of pain, looked up—right into the point of Harry's wand.

'Potter,' Draco said uncertainly, raising both hands defensively, wand still clutched in his left, 'what—'

'Shut up,' Harry hissed, blinking away the spots in his vision, wand still pointed at Draco's chest. 'You can quit the act, Malfoy.'

: : :

* * *

**A/N**: If anyone's confused about the flashback, the 24th of June is the day Voldemort killed Cedric in the graveyard.

I didn't initially plan to end this one on a cliffhanger. Apologies! Well, okay, that's a lie, just not _this_ cliffhanger. I just can't seem to finish a chapter without a sheer drop at the end.

Also, I know that wasn't enough to satisfy you insane, impatient, smut-starved fanatics. I planned to have more for this part, but this chapter kept growing when I wasn't looking (much like the Heavens) so I had to cut it short. I do sincerely apologize, and can only beg for your further patience with the promise that the next instalment opens with sex. Seriously. (Only perhaps not the sex you expect, but for that you shall have to wait and see, I'm afraid.)

**Credits**: title, quotes and lyrics by Ani Difranco and Hurt


	13. Chapter Twelve: Rapture

This new update is dedicated to my two new betas, Shan and Geneva. You guys are rock stars.

* * *

Chapter Twelve  
**Rapture**

_Waiting for someone to put you together_  
_Waiting for someone to push you away_

_There's always another wound to discover_  
_There's always something more you wish he'd say_

: : : : :

The two months leading up to Harry's practical testing for his Auror exams flew by. Between his actual duties as a cadet and his unofficial – but more important – work for the Order, he was hardly sleeping at all. He tended to cat nap whenever he could find a couple of hours in which nothing was on fire and nobody was dying, and was doing just that when he awoke with a start late one evening to someone hellbent on breaking down his front door.

Ron was already in the entryway, wand drawn, hand on the doorknob. Harry, shirtless and without his glasses, his own wand grasped in his hand, nodded. Ron unlocked the door, yanked it open, and leapt out of the way.

Blaise stood there on the threshold, breathing heavily, rain cascading off his broad shoulders. He looked at Harry with that fierce, haunted expression Harry knew all too well, and at once Harry understood. He grabbed Blaise by the upper arm and dragged him inside.

Harry let him stay, because he didn't have anywhere else to go. Who could face their own mother, doing what he had done, _had_ to do? He didn't have any money, not without walking into Gringotts and having to see people—nice, innocent, ordinary, everyday people that might at any moment end up on the other side of his wand. It was all right, though; Ron went to stay with Hermione for a couple of weeks, and let Blaise use his room.

And then it was July 31st. Harry had forgotten, what with Blaise appearing on his doorstep and Auror finals, that it was his birthday that weekend. He would have happily forgotten it, but Harry's friends, as they so often did, insisted on celebrating, because it was always nice to have an excuse to get drunk and forget there was a war going on.

Hermione sent the invitations. Harry was supposed to get there at nine. He wandered into the den at half past, looking for his trainers. Blaise was sitting on his couch, dirty boots propped on his coffee table, beer in one hand and some dramatic cop soap playing on the telly. Harry fished his shoes out from underneath the table and sat on the armchair across from him to pull them on.

'You sure you don't want to come?'

Blaise glanced at him before turning his attention back to the television. 'Can't really risk being seen in public with your lot, but thanks anyway.'

'Fred and George rented out the pub for the night,' Harry told him. 'Anyone there will be in the Order.'

Blaise answered with a shrug.

'Open bar,' Harry tempted. 'You've been holed up here a week, c'mon.'

Blaise seemed to consider this only briefly before turning the telly off. 'I'll get my cloak.'

Harry was never on time for his own parties. It wasn't that he made an effort to be late, it just always seemed to happen that way. But this way, at least, he didn't have to sit around awkwardly as people slowly arrived. By the sound and volume of the music on the other side of the door, Fred and George had everything in full-swing by the time they had Apparated into the entryway of the Ashwinder.

When Harry opened the door, Blaise blinked. '_Survivor_? Really?'

'It's George's favourite song,' Harry explained, trying not to smile and failing.

George was, indeed, on the tiny, make-shift karaoke stage at the far end of the dance floor. Fred climbed up to join him, and together they welcomed Harry to his twentieth birthday with an off-key but enthusiastic rendition of Eye of the Tiger.

'Sometimes,' Blaise began, several hours and many rounds later, 'it really sucks being the only Slytherin at a party.'

Harry, who had been birthday-punched in the shoulder enough times to leave a substantial bruise, smirked. 'You're just saying that because nobody's naked.'

'One of many points,' Blaise agreed, glancing around. They were the only ones at the bar now; almost everyone was slow dancing with their respective others, or respective others they'd borrowed from others—and George had actually fallen asleep on the dance floor, somehow. 'How do you lot afford this, anyway?'

Harry shrugged. 'Fred and George's shop has some sort of deal with the place, and anyway they probably make more in a month than most of us do in a year, so,' Harry shrugged again. 'I asked once, and they mentioned something about selling themselves on a street corner.'

Blaise snorted and downed the rest of the gin and tonic he'd been working on for the past quarter of an hour. Harry sighed and rested his chin on his hand, watching Neville twirl Luna expertly into a dip.

'Feeling left out?' Blaise prompted.

Harry shrugged again; the alcohol was severely limiting his communication. 'I can't dance,' he added, as way of explanation.

Blaise smirked a little and twirled his empty cup in his hands. 'Want to get out of here?'

Harry looked very critically at the half-empty bottle of bourbon he'd been working his way through. 'Yeah.'

Harry said goodnight to people while Blaise waited at the door. He even managed to get a thumbs-up from George, still semi-comatose on the floor, when he gave him a goodbye-nudge-in-the-ribs with his foot. He really was far too drunk to Apparate on his own, even such a short distance, so he took Blaise's proffered arm and let himself be yanked back into his flat via Side-Along. He collapsed on his couch clutching his head, the acid turning over in his stomach.

'Why,' he groaned, 'why do I do these things?'

Blaise answered him from the kitchen with another question: 'D'you have anything to drink?'

'You want to drink more?' Harry thought he would be happy never to see another alcoholic beverage in his life. 'How could you possibly drink more?'

'You know,' Blaise said, returning to the couch with a new-found bottle of tequila and two shot glasses, 'if would you eat before drinking, like an intelligent person, it's a lot easier on the stomach. Oh, right—Gryffindor,' he added after a moment, wincing as if he'd had a sudden oncoming of a headache. 'Forgive the oxymoron.'

Harry held up a warning hand, wincing. 'Bite me. And also, if you mention food again, I am going to be sick. On you. I don't – ' Harry attempted, as Blaise slid a shot along the table to him. 'What are you trying to do, kill me through liver failure?'

'Such a lightweight, Potter,' Blaise admonished, downing his own shot quickly and pouring himself another. Harry considered his for a moment before shrugging and following suit. Blaise reached over to refill Harry's glass, and his left sleeve slid up his arm as he did so.

Blaise saw Harry looking and pulled back so quickly, he spilled tequila all over the table.

'Shit.' Blaise went to clean the mess with a flick of his wand, but Harry caught his wrist. Blaise tensed but did not pull away.

Harry pulled back the sleeve, and stared at the fresh Dark Mark there. He looked at it for a long time, while Blaise looked away towards the window, fist clenched so hard that the muscles and veins in his forearm stood out, disfiguring the cursed tattoo with small ridges and valleys.

'Do you want to talk about it?' Harry asked abruptly, releasing his wrist.

Blaise pulled his arm in, cradling it like it was injured. 'No.'

He put down his glass and picked up the bottle instead, and Harry looked up and watched the amber liquid churn in the bottleneck as Blaise sucked it down. Blaise finished the swig with a wince, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back on the couch. He started to talk anyway, so quietly at first Harry couldn't hear exactly what he was saying. But Harry waited, watching him, and listening. Blaise still wasn't looking at him, and his voice was fluctuating; rising, trembling, but hardly pausing for breath. The words poured out of him like a tap left on to run until the sink filled, spilling out, overflowing into the room and drowning him.

Harry did not interrupt, and listened impassively. He took mental notes on important things the Order would need to know later, and filed away the rest, the horrible details that had gotten Blaise that mark, that earned his place among the most loyal, the most revered of the Dark Lord's followers. He knew that every last one of those details could land Blaise in Azkaban when the war was over, spy or no spy. Blaise talked and talked and Harry listened, because who else could, who else would and lock it away? He knew Blaise had done what he had to do, did what he did because Harry had asked it of him, knowing that it was invaluable and important and only came at the low price of his own soul.

'I—' Blaise's voice finally faltered and his shoulder faltered with it, falling sideways against Harry. Harry leaned back and took the weight. 'I don't know how long I can keep this up.'

Harry was quiet a moment, refilling both their glasses, and handed one to Blaise, who kicked it back before it had time to even settle properly in the glass. 'How long will it take?'

'I don't—too long,' Blaise said, sagging. 'Years. _Years_, Potter. It'll take _years_.'

Harry refilled his glass again. 'If you want to pull out,' he said slowly, 'you know I won't blame you. Nobody would.'

Blaise broke the solemn atmosphere by laughing, sharply, the sound cutting through the air like a knife. 'Bit late for that.'

Harry started to say that that wasn't necessarily true, and then realised he'd misunderstood. It wasn't too late to disappear, to vanish off the face of the earth and hope to God they didn't find you. That option was always there, always tempting, even for Harry.

But it was too late to forget.

Harry tossed back his own shot. The tequila was Ron's. Harry actually hated the stuff, but the burn felt good going down anyway. 'Anything you need,' he said, desperate to be able to offer something, anything other than his thanks.'Anything. Anytime. You know I'll—'

Blaise laughed again, deeper, bitterly, mouth close to Harry's ear and snarling. 'Yeah, right. What the fuck can you do for me?'

Harry did look at him then, head turned sharply sideways. 'What would you like?'

Blaise sat up then, slowly, shoulders hunched like an angry vulture, and drank directly from the bottle again. Harry leaned forward to meet him, his knee knocking into Blaise's thigh, and waited. Blaise was hesitating, staring at the coffee table, unfocused. Harry often wished he was better at Legillimency.

'Anything,' Blaise repeated.

'I said that,' Harry said, his voice daring Blaise to challenge it. A promise, something Harry had vowed never to break again.

Blaise nodded, probably mostly to himself, and then turned to face Harry and shoved the bottle of tequila into his hands. 'Drink,' he ordered.

Harry blinked at him. 'What is this, the worst hangover ever? Is that what you want?'

'Drink,' Blaise repeated, and the smirk Harry had hoped to see did not appear.

Harry took the bottle and started to drink, tentatively. Blaise watched him hungrily, impatience emanating from every pore. Harry dared to pause so he could ask, 'Now what?'

That seemed to break whatever spell had held Blaise still—he lunged at Harry, who immediately went for his wand, and stopped when he remembered with some surprise that Blaise was unarmed, and with even more clarity, that Blaise was not hurting him, that—Blaise had—was—_what_?

Suddenly, drinking seemed like a very, very good idea. A thousand fragmented thoughts were suddenly whirling through his head like a drunken tornado, jumbled and disorganized and out of control because his blood-tequila ratio was too high to think about this properly, to know how to react, and it hurt whenever he tried. So Harry stopped trying to think altogether and tried to absorb the here and now, here being on his couch next to Blaise, dark and hard and dangerous, now being Blaise's mouth on his, tongue sliding along his bottom lip, challenging his promise.

After all, he'd said _anything._

With every single nerve in his body Harry could feel Blaise against him, warm and unyielding, and thought, simply: I can give him this.

It was the least he could do.

He parted his lips, and Blaise seemed to interpret that as Harry giving consent. It wasn't like kissing anyone Harry had kissed before. In all fairness, Harry had only kissed girls before, so maybe that was the difference. There was no softness, no control. There was just hot saliva and tongue and _teeth_ and Harry found his back crushed against the arm of the couch, mind spinning and light-headed from a combination of an alcohol-enhanced sense of touch and sudden lack of oxygen.

He was rather surprised to realise that the connotations of what was going on didn't really bother him, as Harry had never given much particular thought to his sexual orientation because he'd never had to; he'd never even fantasised about it—but then, he'd never actually considered the possibility, either. He supposed that, objectively, Blaise was attractive for a guy. Harry had never thought of him that way before, and wasn't sure he would in the morning, but right now—the desperation, the pain, the cursed alcohol poisoning their veins—_right now_, Harry could be attracted to him.

Right now, Harry could want him.

Maybe it _was_ the alcohol or the lack of oxygen, but Harry had never realised how much bigger Blaise was; taller, broader, heavier, _stronger_—Harry wasn't used to being overpowered, but Blaise held him down easily. Harry felt like he was drowning, _suffocating_ underneath him, twisting and arching under pressure. And then Blaise slipped a hand up the inside of his shirt, cool fingers searching over warm flesh, and Harry made a noise into Blaise's mouth and Blaise shoved his hips down into Harry's, hard.

Harry found his hands gripping uselessly at the couch cushions and wondered what he should be doing with them. That had never been an issue before. With girls, well—there were their shoulders, their waists, the curve of their hips and breasts and things—always somewhere to put his hands; he sort of always figured it out on autopilot. And sure there were hips and things, but not _breasts_, and the hips weren't curved and soft but hard and angular, the shoulders broad and stronger than his, and Harry didn't know what to do with them.

He tried, anyway. His hands fumbled only briefly in the region of Blaise's hips before Blaise found Harry's wrists, grabbed them in one hand, and slammed them above his head and held them pinned there.

Well, _that_ was new.

Harry sometimes thought about how he had sex before he had stopped; stopped letting himself give in when he so desperately wanted to and so easily could, and afterwards always wished he hadn't. He didn't like what he remembered. He knew he was rough, rougher than most of his partners liked. Even worse was when he let himself go, when he relinquished control, he knew that unpleasant things tended to happen. Mostly in the form of the sounds he would make. Not the sort of noises that, upon reflection, could be considered embarrassing or silly, not the sort of uneven, trembling noises girls made—similar, but worse. So much worse.

_Gasps laced with hisses, moans made so deep in his throat that they came out as more of a snarl. Eyes that, instead of becoming glazed and glassy, changed—became sharp, predatory, terrifying. _

Many intimate relationships had been abruptly shattered by something he had no control over, a trait he couldn't discipline, a power that was as much as blessing as it was a curse. Harry sometimes thought that maybe something was wrong with him. It wasn't even him or his hissing, more the fact that anyone who survived the savagery and stayed would be scared out of his bedroom in the middle of the night when, inevitably, his own dreams turned serpentine and he woke up screaming. Even then, even when and if they tried to ignore it, the midnight whispers were on his lips about the graveyard. It never seemed like enough - the warm flesh under his hands, the soft, beautiful noises they would make. The tight wet warmth was pleasant and the inevitable orgasm enjoyable, but it always left him wanting.

Blaise was warm, but he wasn't soft. He used the hand not holding Harry down to bunch Harry's shirt up under his arms, the fabric gathering around his neck and collarbone, and busied his mouth on the revealed flesh. Harry hissed through his teeth and heard the sibilant tones there, faint, rising from the back of the deep cave and slithering closer.

Harry wondered how long it would be before Blaise could hear them, too, and what he would do when he did. Blaise wasn't Cho, who afterwards would shy away like a wounded animal, leaving Harry confused and bewildered and out of control; wasn't Ginny, who would wince and recoil and make Harry hate himself, hate what he was, hate what he made her remember.

No, Blaise—Blaise could actually _hurt_ him; Harry flexed his hands experimentally, and Blaise tightened his grip. He tried again, twisting his right arm, but Blaise had him good; his thumb and forefinger locked around the bones in Harry's wrists. Harry felt Blaise's mouth curve against his abdomen, and then got completely distracted from trying to escape as Blaise started to undo the clasp of his belt.

'Blaise—' Blaise wasn't looking at him, and Harry was grateful for that, because he could feel his pupils shrinking in the darkness. It was possible Blaise didn't even hear him, because Harry was trying so hard to hold back the murmurs resonating in his voice. 'Fuck, I've—I've never—'

Blaise pulled the last of the leather strap of his belt through the clasp, and proceeded to undo the button of Harry's jeans with his teeth. Blaise dragged his tongue back up Harry's chest and kissed him, hard and slow, teeth scraping over his bottom lip.

'I figured,' Blaise murmured against the corner of his mouth, his free hand pulling down Harry's zip and then sliding its way inside. Harry bit down a hiss and Blaise kissed him again, quickly this time, and withdrew his hand. 'Should I stop?'

Harry swallowed thickly - when had it become so hard to breathe? He took several shallow breaths, trying to still the snakes slithering up his throat, while Blaise made a meal of the soft skin below where his jaw met his ear. Harry, unable to find words, finally just settled for shaking his head.

Blaise reached up and pulled Harry's glasses off while he kissed the side of his neck once more, causing Harry to shiver. He suddenly felt cold as Blaise pulled away, just a little, and released his wrists. 'Take your shirt off.'

It wasn't a request. Harry took it off.

And then Blaise was on him again, sliding down his chest, pushing his knees apart and slipping between them, and Harry's hands, freed, found Blaise's shoulders—rubbing, grabbing, fingers getting tangled in the dark, curly hair at the base of Blaise's neck. Harry let his head fall back against the arm of the couch, arching into the slick, fervid cavity that was Blaise's mouth.

He tensed and bucked. Blaise was using his hands and tongue and _teeth_ and, _sweet_ _Jesus_, it was the best fucking blowjob he'd ever had—and he tried and failed to bite down on the breath escaping his mouth in a low, wavering hiss that hung in the air.

Blaise paused, and Harry's head snapped up, horrified. Blaise was watching him carefully, clearly unsure of what he was hearing. He looked at Harry's naked eyes, and at once Harry could tell he'd figured it out. Harry'd seen his eyes after sex in the bathroom mirror, the change lingering too long after, shocking even in the darkness, irises dilated, forming thick, bright emerald pools laced with yellow around tightly constricted pupils that weren't quite as spherical as they should have been.

The only other times Harry had seen his eyes like that were immediately upon waking from a nightmare involving Voldemort, and on the night that Sirius died.

Harry had never blamed Cho for leaving, Ginny for giving up, never once blamed any of the others for running away. If he could have, he would have run, too.

But Blaise wasn't running, and was still watching him, dark eyes lurking under long lashes. He went back to work with his hands, mouth temptingly half-open, slick edge of his tongue glinting off the feeble light from a street lamp coming through the window, his eyes on Harry's. Sucking in a deep breath, Harry tried to hold his gaze, tried to keep his breathing under control, but the Italian sonofabitch in his lap was relentless and patient with experienced hands and Harry tilted his head back, surrendering to the feeling, eyes rolling back into his head as the low, breathless sounds interwoven with an alien tongue began to leak out.

When the tropical paradise that was Blaise's mouth went back to work, the sounds went uneven, and Harry felt the growl in his throat before he heard it.

The aching, painful coil of pleasure was winding up so tightly that Harry couldn't think. His left hand grabbed ineffectually at the cushions of the couch while his right wove into the thick curls of Blaise's head, tightening, pulling so hard Harry was surprised he didn't hurt him—or maybe he did, and Blaise just didn't care. And then Blaise pulled away and Harry did snarl, loud and deep, and Blaise swallowed it with a violent kiss.

Blaise broke away abruptly, panting. 'Tell me how you really feel,' he drawled, voice thick and dark eyes raking over Harry hungrily.

Harry stared at him. 'I didn't—I can't,' Harry paused to swallow again, his voice still scratchy from the Parseltongue, 'I mean, I'm not _trying_ to—it's not—'

'You're not?' Blaise looked him over again with that same hungry, calculating look, and gave Harry an incredulous smile. 'Really? Well, then,' Blaise lowered his face until his mouth was angled against the side of Harry's neck, lips and teeth grazing Harry's skin with every word, '_start _trying.'

He bit down, hard. Harry hissed.

Apparently pleased, Blaise licked the welt he'd made and sat back, quickly pulling off his own shirt. The fresh Mark was still visible against his olive skin even in the dim light. Blaise didn't see him looking because he was too busy finishing taking Harry's jeans off. Then he grabbed Harry by the hips, yanked him forward, and threw one of Harry's knees over his shoulder.

Harry steeled himself, the muscles in his stomach contracting, the sudden intake of breath a hiss in reverse, and crushed down the urge to panic. Blaise was bent over him, sandwiching Harry's thigh in-between their chests, and kissed him again. He took his time, tongue sliding over Harry's in slow, fluid motions, drinking down the sibilant noises, one hand under the back of Harry's knee and one hand between their hips. Harry's eyes flew open and he grabbed Blaise's wrist, just as Blaise closed his fingers around the hilt of his wand.

Blaise pulled back and raised an eyebrow. 'Bit paranoid, aren't you?'

Harry tightened his hold until Blaise winced. 'I sort of have to be.'

'If I was going to do you in,' Blaise said, the thick, sultry tone returning to his voice, 'I'd wait until after the fun, trust me.'

'Can I?' Harry threw the question at him like a challenge.

Blaise ran the hand he had under Harry's knee down the underside of his thigh and curled it underneath him. Harry's entire body tensed because Blaise had just done something with his finger that Harry probably should have been expecting but hadn't really been thinking about at all and, fucking Christ, what the hell was he doing?

Unreadable dark eyes held his gaze firm. 'You fucking better.'

Then Blaise leaned down, mouth by Harry's ear, and his voice changed; no longer harsh, it was almost gentle, persuasive, liquid. 'Relax. No, really, _relax_—there you go.' The tip of his nose and his lips were tracing the edge of Harry's ear with a feather-light touch, and Harry gave in to the sounds trying to escape him.

'Unless you've got some body oil lying around, I really do need your wand,' Blaise added. He paused to sit back up, a corner of his mouth slanting upwards before turning his head to the side and biting down on the inside of Harry's thigh, leaving a bright red crescent in its wake. 'Assuming you don't, of course, _want_ this to hurt more than it has to.'

Harry took several slow, deep breaths, the strain in his body slowly ebbing as he forced his muscles to relax. He was watching Blaise carefully and Blaise held his gaze, looking hungry and determined and desperate, but the hunted, shadowed terror in his gaze was gone—and Harry remembered why he was doing this, why _they_ were doing this, what Blaise was doing for him, sacrificing for him, and he slowly released his wrist.

Blaise grinned at him then, predatory and pleased, and leaned in to kiss him again. It took all of Harry's self-control not to squirm as he felt the slick, cold touch and instead concentrated hard on the kiss, biting down hard in retaliation on Blaise's lips and tongue whenever Blaise pressed harder, further, the coldness turning hot and a constant stream of sporadic bursts of pleasure and pain shot up his spine like electric shocks.

Later, long after the initial pain had faded into a wild haze of feeling, when every single sound he made was twisting along the boundaries of English and Parseltongue and making no sense at all, when Blaise had long swapped smirking for a laboured sort of panting, teeth and nails dragging relentlessly at any available flesh—later, when the savage tidal wave they had been riding came crashing down and Harry almost blacked out from the sensory overload, the bottle of tequila on the table exploded, showering them in a fine mist of sweet, sticky liquor.

They stared at one another for a moment before Blaise collapsed, laughing breathlessly into the slick curve of Harry's neck.

: : : : :

Blaise appeared standing in a cold room that smelled strongly of blood.

The Dark Lord stood not five yards before him, reclining lazily in a high-backed chair and trying to look bored with the scene before him, but the hungry look in his eyes betrayed the façade. Snape stood beside him, along with Dolohov, who had a weedy, quivering man held at wandpoint. Three figures stood before them; one stood apart, tall and at ease; the second holding the third, who snarled and tried to lunge at Blaise as he stepped forward. Her fangs flashed yellow in the firelight.

Blaise scowled and stepped quickly to Snape's side, out of reach. He _hated_ vampires.

The man held at wandpoint was tossed forward, and Dolohov conjured thick chains that wrapped around the screaming female vampire like a leash. She was obviously newly-made; her yellow eyes were wild and hungry, and she shrieked and clawed as the metal tightened around the skin of her neck, dragging her down to the floor. The nondescript wizard was seized and held easily by the vampire making the exchange—without a wand, he couldn't possibly put up a fight.

The eldest of the creatures, still standing apart, appraised their prize quickly before nodding. 'Acceptable. Although,' Blaise assumed it was female—it was impossible to tell with the low hood, and all vampires spoke in that seductive, androgynous voice, 'the blood of a muggleborn isn't nearly as sweet as one pure.'

The Dark Lord, who had been eyeing the young vampire hungrily, laughed hollowly. 'Perhaps if you brought me something more potent than one of your infants, Andronia, I would consider it.'

'Their blood is strong.'

'But not nearly as powerful as yours, correct?'

'It is a fair trade,' Andronia the vampire agreed, bowing. 'My Lord.'

What the Dark Lord was doing trading muggleborns for vampires Blaise did not know, but it was interesting. He filed it away to dissect later, careful not to think thoughts that could betray him. As the vampires took their leave, the Dark Lord turned to address him. 'Zabini, come forward.'

Blaise turned to face him, eyes downcast. 'My Lord.'

'I have an assignment that requires rather... delicate handling. Severus has told me that your discretion is unmatched in such matters.'

Blaise could feel Snape probing at his mind as he processed this, but he wasn't bad at Occlumency himself; his guards held firm. 'I would be honoured, my Lord.'

'Splendid. Severus will fill you in on the details. You are dismissed. Dolohov, bring the creature here.'

Severus followed Blaise to the door. He had just reached for the handle when the Dark Lord's voice made him pause.

'Oh, and Zabini, need I not remind you, that failure would be dealt with most severely. If you are successful, however...'

Blaise turned his head, just enough to see Dolohov holding the vampire at the Dark Lord's feet, her neck stretched over a cauldron, a knife at her neck. '… you will be amply rewarded.'

As they stepped through the door there was a shriek that cut off abruptly, followed by a gurgle as the vampire choked on her own blood. Severus closed the door and led him down the hall in silence.

: : :

Draco was getting a headache.

Well, it was to be expected, really. He had been lucky to get a couple of hours of sleep each night, what with the noises of the Congo constantly waking him up in a panic. Mandibles of Doom notwithstanding, Africa had already tried to kill him via heat, exposure, and a large mammalian predator. There were probably crocodiles in here somewhere, hungry and waiting for him to expose an unwary arm or leg in range.

This probably counted as a suicide attempt, he thought dismally. He was voluntarily walking into a pit of unfriendly dark magic, aided by Harry Potter, sure, but it was Harry Potter that was the lucky one. Cedric Diggory hadn't been very fortunate, after all. In the interest of his long-term health, Sirius Black would have been better off in Azkaban. It wasn't even that Harry was unaware of the fact – the fact that people around him always seemed to die. How Granger and Weasley had survived so long was a mystery to Draco.

And who knows how many others? a little voice chimed in. Potter puts people at risk all the time, often thoughtlessly, selfishly. Like your mother. He couldn't give a damn what happens to her, he let her stay at the Palazzo, left her there with a man who had raped her, shamed her, and who could hand her over to the Dark Lord any day now…

No, that wasn't right, Draco thought, shaking his head. Harry was a lot of things, but selfish wasn't one of them. Stupid, maybe. And thoughtless was the wrong word – ignorant sometimes, definitely reckless, but not uncaring. Occasionally oblivious. Well, almost constantly oblivious. But he hadn't left her there, Draco had. Anyway, she wouldn't have come, no matter what Draco could have said, because even Draco knew she was right. Yaxley may have been a scheming sonofabitch, but he would protect her, because he, unlike Harry, _was_ selfish. He could keep her safe so long as she played along with whatever ungodly fantasies he wanted her for.

Potter shouldn't have let her go in the first place, the niggling voice insisted. Potter wouldn't have let his own mother go, not even if it meant getting dirt on a known Death Eater, even if meant sacrificing a Horcrux. He would have found another way. But _your_ mother, well, that is a risk Potter can afford to take, isn't it? Sure, he might feel a bad if she died, but he wouldn't lose any sleep over it. He doesn't care about either of you; he's just using the both of you for his own agenda. Why else would he bring you all the way out here, into the lair of the Dark Lord, right to another Horcrux? Do you think he actually trusts you? _You?_ Don't flatter yourself. You think he's forgetting those six years of hell you put him through? That it was you, indirectly or not, that led to Dumbledore's death? To Bill's scars? To Snape's escape? He _wants_ you to suffer, he _wants_ you to be in harm's way – because if you died, wouldn't that be convenient? Hell, he might even kill you himself. Nobody would question him if he claimed it had been an accident.

Draco grimaced. What the hell was going on in his head? Even shift-lag didn't make him this paranoid. Harry had sacrificed more than he had by getting him off with the Ministry, and he had more than enough opportunities to hurt Draco over the past couple of weeks if he had really wanted to. But Harry wasn't vindictive –

Isn't he? the little voice interrupted. Potter wouldn't kill Snape given the chance? He was certainly vindictive towards _him_. And to the Dark Lord, well…

Draco stopped walking, rubbing at his right temple, wincing.

'Malfoy?' Harry had noticed Draco's pause and stopped, turning to face him. 'What is it?'

'I – I don't know,' Draco admitted, massaging both of his temples. He gazed, unfocused, at the stone floor between them. 'Something's – something feels off. I don't – I can't put my finger on it.'

Harry cried out suddenly, sharply, and when Draco looked up, startled, Harry was clutching his forehead with his left hand, fingers digging sharply into his scar, while his right held his wand at Draco's chest.

'Potter,' Draco spread both arms reflexively in surrender. 'What – '

'Shut up,' Harry snapped, his left hand falling to his side, his eyes suddenly sharp, focused—and bright, almost glowing in the darkness. 'You can quit the act, Malfoy.'

'Uh, okay?' Draco attempted, perplexed. A hot, sharp pain lanced across his chest, following the path of the scar there, making him wince. 'Would you mind pointing that somewhere else?'

'I said shut _up_,' Harry snarled, and Draco did so, arms still spread but tightening his grip on his wand. Harry was moving towards him, and Draco could see his eyes were not actually glowing, but changing. The green was growing brighter in the darkness, his irises growing interlaced with a luminescent, putrid yellow. 'You think I don't know what you're up to, Malfoy? You think I actually trusted you? _You?_' Harry laughed, a nasty, unnerving laugh that was laced with a hiss, and made Draco shudder involuntarily. 'Really, Malfoy, I know your friends weren't that bright, but I didn't expect you to be so thick.'

I told you so, the little voice pointed out smugly. I told you, didn't I?

'Shut up!' Draco shouted so suddenly that it startled Harry, and he took the moment of distraction to dive behind a pillar. The side of it exploded a moment after Draco took cover, a near miss from Harry. He winced at the impact, the dust of shattered stone flooding his nose and mouth as he inhaled sharply.

'That's just like you, isn't it?' he heard Harry sneer, dark amusement and hisses lacing his words. 'Run and hide, like always.' Harry's voice was slithering around to the left, and Draco shuffled, scrambling to his feet, to his right around the pillar, keeping it between them. 'You always were a fucking coward.'

Draco's mind was reeling. The ache in his chest was almost disabling, white-hot stabs of pain shooting across his sternum, into his stomach and plunging into his lungs. That wasn't Harry. Harry didn't talk like that. Harry wouldn't attack him like that. Something was wrong. Something they missed –

Wouldn't he? The voice returned, smugly, tauntingly. He's attacked you before.

_He was drunk,_ Draco thought back, wildly. _I provoked him. I was asking for that, I knew he was drunk, hell,_ I_ was drunk –_

Oh, he was _drunk_, that's all right, then. When he almost cut you in half, was he drunk then, too?

Draco heard Harry's footsteps change course, and made a quick dash for the nearest pillar in the opposite direction. Harry's hex left a crater in the spot Draco had occupied only a moment before.

_I provoked him then, too, _Draco remembered, wondering wildly why he was having to argue with his own thoughts, _I nearly cast an Unforgivable on him, I wasn't thinking._

He had no right, the voice continued, cackling nastily. Always snooping around, following you, looking for an excuse to expose you, to attack you, to _hurt_ you. You're just another Death Eater to him, no better than your father, no better than your traitor mother –

Draco thought of his mother – golden and smiling and beautiful and stronger than he could ever hope to be – and it was like he had flipped a switch. His mind cleared. The cackling, snide, whispering, coaxing voice was gone.

In an instant, he knew what was wrong. He knew what was going on. The curse's mechanics seemed to focus on any hateful or grudging feelings and memories in the target's mind and exploit them. Sensing the history between the two of them and the recent turn of events, it had fuelled and fed on the doubts and suspicions already there, trying to trick them into turning against one another. Failing that, it would likely turn to disabling them individually – and while Draco, trained to protect his mind from unwanted Legillimens routing around inside, was better able to protect himself, Harry's mind was wide open for infiltration.

_Oh,_ _fuck_.

'Come on, Malfoy,' hissed Harry, his voice coming closer. Draco took a deep breath and sprinted again, putting another two pillars' distance between them. A red flash of light illuminated the area, ricocheting off a pillar and exploding somewhere in the ceiling. 'Even for you, this is pathetic.'

This was _bad_. Harry had always been terrible at Occlumency. He might have quicker reflexes than any wizard alive today, he might have bested the Dark Lord on multiple occasions – he might have more lives than a litter of bloody _kittens_ – but he couldn't protect his own mind to save his life. He was too impulsive, too forthright, too desperate for affection, too fucking _trusting_ to understand the concept behind the art. His mind was like an unlocked safe, there for the taking to anyone or anything with the inclination. Harry, who had seen and suffered more than any child should have, was too vulnerable. He would never be able to fight through this on his own.

The only way to stop Harry would be to turn this around on him, assuming that was even possible.

If Draco was wrong, Harry would probably kill him.

The pillar at his back shuddered and cracked, spitting shattered rock on either side of him. Draco gripped his chest with his free hand, where the scar was the deepest, and winced.

Harry would probably kill him either way.

Draco closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and stepped out from behind the pillar.

Harry was about ten feet away, standing between two pillars, wand held casually at his side. He wasn't laughing anymore. His yellow-green eyes, pupils too small, flashed as Draco came into view and he twirled the wand in his fingers, apparently unconcerned that Draco already had his wand pointed at Harry's chest.

Draco extended his mind as quickly as he could, and was met with a tumult of emotion. The throbbing in his chest became almost unbearable, eliciting a gasp of pain as it shot through him. Harry's mind was a storm of rage, roaring over the pain, confusion, sorrow, the hidden memories of red, slitted eyes. But there was fear there, too – buried deep, silenced beneath the crazed, impenetrable tornado of hate.

Draco concentrated on that fear, knowing he had only moments, if that, before Harry attacked again. The fear mostly came in the form of those he loved – Draco felt, rather than saw, the people Harry loved and feared for – Granger, Weasley and his family – _Harry's_ family – Lupin, Luna, and, surprisingly, _Zabini_? And there were also those he had already lost. Fear for Sirius, for Cedric, his parents, Dumbledore, and a myriad of people Draco couldn't identify, faceless swells of worry and fear, simmering beneath deadly unfamiliar eyes.

And there, buried deep beneath them all, Draco felt himself, too.

The fear blurred, and Draco saw the spell a heartbeat before Harry cast, as quick as a snake striking, and reacted instantly.

'_Expecto patronum!'_

He shouted the incantation because he didn't trust himself to cast it all, but the Patronus appeared, a blinding light in the darkness, claws unsheathed, incorporeal muscles rippling beneath ghostly skin. The roar reverberated through the cavern, echoing infinitely off into the darkness even as the Patronus was silenced abruptly when the spells collided.

Harry stared at the leopard as it was torn to shreds in absorbing his curse, his yellow-green eyes wide.

Draco, breathing hard, lowered his wand. He was going about this the wrong way. Draco knew he couldn't take Harry in a duel. Harry was too quick, too powerful, too dangerous. And despite his failings at Occlumency, he had mastered silent spell-casting as early as sixteen. Even if Draco could manage to predict his spells, sooner or later, Harry would overpower him. Draco could not win. Not here, not now, not one-on-one.

Anyway, he was fairly certain he knew how the spell was working, now. Harry would have never cast that spell at him again, not after sixth-year, not if he was in his right mind.

If he would, well, then Draco was screwed.

Harry was still staring at the space the Patronus had vanished, and Draco took the moment of distraction to unbutton his collar and then, in one swift movement, pulled his shirt over his head. When he could see again, Harry was staring at him, his mind still a hurricane of hate and anger and sibilant whispers, but hesitating.

Hesitating was progress.

Draco dropped his shirt at his feet and spread his arms out to his sides. 'Well? Come on, Potter. You may as well finish the job.'

Harry opened his mouth, and then quickly closed it. He raised his wand again, a look of renewed determination on his face. Draco inhaled sharply, the muscles in his abdomen tightening reflexively against the pain, the _pain_, which had never been this bad before. When Harry still hesitated to cast, Draco wondered if he should push his luck. This thing was powerful, whatever it was, and he knew he couldn't give it time to convince Harry to do anything he'd regret. He had to keep Harry distracted, off-balance. He had to be cruel.

Well, cruel he could do.

'You'd be doing me a kindness, honestly,' Draco told him, fighting to keep his voice even. It was hard when Harry's serpentine eyes were narrowed over a wand pointed at his chest – his chest, naked and perfect but for the memory of the laceration, a line of fire and pain, twenty-seven inches long, not unlike the one Harry carried on his forehead. Four years had turned it a shallow, pink depression that began as a thin, jagged mark just above his collarbone and, widening, cut diagonally down his chest like a pink lightning bolt, cutting through his stomach and past his navel, tapering off over his abdomen and disappearing beneath his trousers. 'Really, I'm sick of the pain, the hiding, and really, _really_ sick of kissing your arse. So do us both a favour.'

The tip of Harry's wand faltered, but his eyes were still clouded with that dirty yellow colour. Draco waited. Harry bared his teeth and tightened his grip on his wand. 'I didn't – '

'Of course you didn't,' Draco interrupted quickly. 'You never do, do you? Mean for people to get hurt, that is. But they do. I'm surprised any of your friends are still alive. But I suppose it's only a matter of time.'

The tip of his wand wavered again, and the rage shuddered as the fear underneath it began to boil. Draco plunged on, wildly grasping at any knowledge he could muster up and twist, throwing them at Harry like curses. 'I can't believe people can stand to be around you at all, after what happened to Diggory. After how you went and got your godfather killed – how did Lupin feel about that, by the way? I mean, he only lost all of his friends in one night, one killed, one presumed dead, one called a traitor and thrown in Azkaban. And then, and _then_, a miracle happens – he gets his best friend back after twelve years of being alone, only to lose him again because you were too weak to realise the Dark Lord had set a trap for you. How do you even look him in the eye?'

'Shut up!' The only part of Harry not shaking was the hand holding his wand. The anger was getting worse, but this time it was laced with fear and guilt and – and shame? Really? Draco nearly lost what little hold he could get on Harry's mind, startled. Guilt he expected, but shame? For what? 'You don't know what you're – you have no idea – '

Fear. Guilt. Shame. Draco concentrated on these. He had to. The anger was strong, but he could throw it off balance if he played his cards right. It was mean, and Harry would hate him for it, he might still try to kill him afterwards – but Harry upset would be easier to overcome than Harry out of his mind.

'Even your parents,' Draco continued, 'nobody really blames _you_ for their deaths. I mean, you were just a baby, right? But fact is, Potter, if it hadn't been for you, well, they still might be here. If you had never been born, if they'd had another baby, a _normal_ one, they'd still be alive, wouldn't they?'

Harry was staring at him with a mix of horror and bewilderment. The yellow had faded slowly from his eyes, the green losing the glow and his pupils returning to the proper dilation. His wand, still held upright, was no longer pointed at Draco with any sort of conviction. Harry's mind was more unstable now than it had been five minutes ago, and Draco was beginning to panic. It had been hard enough to get any hold on Harry's mind, however wide-open it was, when it was a chaotic mess of fury, but now it was so torn and jumbled with different emotions that Draco was barely managing to hold on.

'I guess Diggory was easier, you didn't really give a shit about him, did you?' Draco said lightly, trying to ignore the scorching whiplash against his chest. 'Prick was snogging your girlfriend, anyway, you were probably pleased – '

Harry moved so fast, so impulsively, Draco had no warning whatsoever. He hadn't attacked with his wand – cast aside, fallen uselessly to the ground – but with his hands, tightening painfully along the junctions of Draco's neck and shoulders, slamming his bare back into the rough stone of a pillar. Draco felt his wand go flying, and then the back of his head hit the sharp stone, and he thought for a moment he had blacked out until the spots in his vision began to clear.

'I couldn't – I – ' Harry was choking on his words, all the sibilance in his voice gone, and as Draco's vision slowly returned, he was horrified to see that Harry was crying. 'How dare you – you've no – '

Draco gasped for breath as he suddenly found himself released, bewildered, stumbling away from the pillar, hands on his knees, chest heaving with the effort of breathing through the pain. Draco stared at Harry, who had collapsed with his back against another pillar, hands wound painfully tight in his hair, glaring through tears at the ground. It was as if it had worked _too_ well – Draco had meant to snap him out of it, but had not only managed to sling-shot Harry's mind in the other direction, but out the other side and into a completely different mess.

'It – was all my fault.' Draco became aware that Harry was talking, or rather whispering, apparently mostly to himself. 'I told him to take it.' He looked up at Draco suddenly, eyes tear-stained, the grief there painful to witness. '_I told him to take it!_'

Draco stared at him. He had no idea what Harry was on about, or what to do with it. He was terrified of going near that mind again – the pain was bad enough with Harry so angry, so out of control – when Draco reached out for his mind, it was a million times worse, and if he blacked out he wouldn't be able to do any good at all.

Draco leaned down and grabbed one of Harry's wrists, attempting to untangle it from the knot he'd woven it into. 'Hey. Hey – calm the fuck down, what are you – '

'He told me to go. He _told_ me to. If I had just – he wouldn't – he'd still be – how was I supposed to know what – ' Harry jerked his hand away from his touch, bringing both knees up to his chest, re-tangling his hands in his hair, tight as a vice. 'I told him to take it with me!'

The images spilled into the forefront of his mind, as conspicuous as a billboard on the motorway: Harry standing by the Triwizard Cup with Cedric, and they both reached out at the same time—

'Oh, Christ,' Draco said, sinking to his knees.

He really should just knock Harry out, and drag him out of there. But even if he did, there was no way to know if it would wear off if they simply left the area. The fact that it attacked their mentality made this even less likely. No, they needed to beat this. Either that, or Draco could take his chances alone.

Yeah, right.

'Potter. Potter – no, stop that, god damn it, snap out of it!' Harry, startled at the sudden shouting, blinked at him.'You need to fight it—what you're thinking, whatever the fuck it is you're feeling, none of it is real. Well, it is, but not – fuck. I can't explain it – this isn't something a wand can fix. You need to _fight_ _it_.'

Harry wrenched his wrist free and re-tangled both hands in his hair, dragging his head down to the floor, face contorted as if in unimaginable pain.

'Potter. Potter. Harry! Look at me, damn it, yes – hey,' Draco grabbed both of Harry's wrists this time and tugged them, firmly but gently, out of his hair. 'Look at me. _Listen_ to me. Here – ' Draco took Harry's right hand and pulled it to his chest, Harry's palm against the mark there, and bit down on his tongue, swallowing the noise that rushed to escape his throat. It hurt worse than anything Draco had ever felt, but it was where the connection was strongest. After all, Harry made the mark, and his moods seem to affect it. Harry stared at him, then at his hand on Draco's chest, his eyes widening in horror. Draco closed his eyes and concentrated.

Myrtle was screaming. Draco saw himself, pale against a splash of bright red, choking on his own blood. Harry was over him, horror-struck, shaking, muttering incoherently –

'No!' Draco opened his eyes and Harry was still staring at the scar, his hand balled into a fist over the mark. 'Damn it, stop giving it weapons! _Look at me!_'

He shouted the last remark with his voice and with his mind, and this seemed to do the trick. Harry looked at him, eyes a little more focused, red and raw but dry. Draco forced his palm open and back flat against his scar, ignoring the pain, keeping his eyes open and locked on Harry's. Draco leaned in, pressing his forehead against Harry's, his free hand on the back of Harry's neck, firmly holding him there.

'You need to let me in,' he told Harry. 'Look at me. Focus on _me_.'

He had no idea if Harry knew what he was talking about. Harry had to fight it, fight that evil, cackling little voice, but stop bombarding Draco with memories he couldn't possibly subdue. Harry might have been shit at Occlumency, but he wasn't ignorant to its effects – he was fighting, he had to be, or he would have killed Draco by now. He just didn't know how to defeat it, and that was all he had to do, once he got it out, he'd be fine – if he would just let Draco _help him_.

Harry closed his eyes, and Draco felt him shudder. Well, here went nothing…

It was like diving into a Pensieve. Draco opened his mind's eye, and found himself in a graveyard. There was Harry, wide-eyed and impossibly young, crouched beside the figure of Cedric, standing tall but looking terrified, both him and the Dark Lord with their wands drawn. There was a quiet, amused sort of cackle, and a raspy voice hissed, '_Kill the spare._'

There was a flash of green light, and the memory changed. He was in a dark, circular room. It was loud; people were shouting, stone walls incandescent with red and green, and a familiar, high-pitched laugh. He looked around, and in the centre stood an ancient stone archway, in which fluttered a shimmering, incorporeal veil. A dark shape fell through it, and disappeared. Somebody screamed.

The rage rose like a tidal wave in Harry's mind. He _was_ fighting back, but he was fighting against Draco, not the spell. He wasn't fighting well, either, his anger swallowing up the grief in self-defence – but even still, the rage _hurt_. Draco's chest felt as if it were being cleaved into, again and again, by a white-hot scythe. Every heartbeat felt as if it would cause his heart to burst, every breath as if it would tear his lungs apart. From where he held Harry's palm tight against the naked scar, his skin burned like he'd laid on an oven coil. He tried to concentrate on blocking out the pain, but the whirlwind of anger and confusion in Harry's mind washed over him in waves, throwing him off-balance before he could get a firm hold.

Draco opened his eyes. Harry was staring unblinking at his own hand, clawing into Draco's chest. Draco gripped Harry's hair with the hand on his neck, and forced his gaze back up into his own. He struggled to keep his voice from breaking despite the pain. 'Stop fighting me, you idiot. I'm trying to – '

_Flash_. Draco was looking at himself on the Astronomy Tower. Momentarily confused, he faltered, and the memory washed over him. He was watching himself from about ten feet away; wand drawn on Dumbledore, shaking, wavering, about to cave. He might've thought it was his own memory if, to his immediate left, he hadn't seen he was standing next to Harry, looking transparent in his own memory, locked frozen against the wall beneath his Invisibility Cloak. The scene seemed to unfold much faster from Harry's perspective than it had from his own experience. The Death Eaters flooded into the room, sneering, laughing. Draco could feel Harry's emotions that went with the memory, the anxiety, the terror, the shock, the overwhelming sensation of helplessness Harry had felt, unable to move, unable to _help_, unable to save Dumbledore…

When Snape raised his wand against Dumbledore, a feeling of dread and betrayal so powerful surged through Harry that Draco cried out from the pain and felt himself fall away, losing the physical and mental link completely.

Draco paused for an instant as his backside hit the rough floor, cushioned only by an inch of muddy dust, to reflect how entirely screwed in the head Harry Potter was, before gritting his teeth and scrambling back onto his knees, seizing Harry again by the neck and knocking their heads together so hard that he winced. He could feel Harry's scar, smooth and jagged across clammy skin, against his own forehead. Harry didn't resist when Draco replaced his hand on his chest, but refused to open his eyes until Draco tightened his grip against the base of his neck to the point of causing him to gasp in pain.

'Harry,' he said, as the dazed look in Harry's eyes began to waver, fighting but failing to keep his focus on him. 'You need to let me in.'

Harry tried to shake him off, cursing incoherently, re-screwing his eyes shut. Draco held on firmly. 'Stop fighting me, for Merlin's sake, the longer you – Harry, you need to _trust me_.'

Harry opened his eyes. The fury was still there, but the fear was gone, replaced by a look of sheer determination. _Yes_.

Draco inhaled deeply, and plunged back in. The same, terrible memories from before swirled around him, dimly, still there but no longer powerful enough to overpower him. Gaining confidence, Draco pushed ahead and nearly panicked when he found himself in the graveyard again. A dozen robe-clad, masked figures, standing in a circle, many of their eyes familiar – the Dark Lord, wand locked against Harry's by a jet of magic made of pure gold – ghostly images of souls, shining like beacons in the darkness.

No, Draco thought, this wasn't strong enough. He had an inkling of what would be – hell, it had worked for him – but only a real memory would suffice, and Draco didn't know if Harry _had_ any real memories of his mother. He had been so young when she died.

As Draco thought of Lily Potter, Harry's own mind responded. He could hear a woman's voice, crying, pleading for her son's life, _not Harry, please not Harry, kill me – _Harry's only real memory of his mother was of her murder? Well, _that_ wouldn't do. Another flash of green, and Harry's mind shuddered, and Draco could feel the darkness, that cold cackle, digging in its claws...

What else? Draco found himself struggling to keep hold as the sneering little voice moved in, digging into every terrible memory it could find; and in Harry's head, it had plenty to choose from. Disjointed, random images drifted by Harry's conscience as the curse worked its way deeper, digging for terrors Harry had forgotten and buried long ago. Draco was horrified to see himself in some of them, silly pranks from school, much crueller from another point of view. Faces of his father's old associates – and Lucius Malfoy himself, cold, grey eyes unmistakable beneath the Death Eater mask he wore.

Draco pushed past these, carefully navigating to avoid getting tangled and drowned in the nightmares, and searched. Didn't Harry have any happy memories at all? Maybe happy was the wrong thing to look for. Draco changed tactics, and narrowed his search… he'd know what he was looking for as soon as he found it…

_If_ he could find it.

Draco tried feeling for any one he could think of that was important to Harry: Granger… her image surfaced, younger, at the Yule Ball, smiling in the arms of Viktor Krum; Weasley, present-day, laughing, holding Harry, bloody but grinning, stumbling towards the wand of a waiting Healer – the blackness wavered, dimming, _yes_, as the warmth from these memories spread… Weasley's sister, crying, yelling, hurling something heavy, darkness, cackling, overwhelming – and Draco shoved that memory away as hard as he could. And… Luna was there, bright and cheerful, but unsteady, and Draco moved on. Lupin? Surely, Lupin…

The shame hit Draco so hard it nearly uprooted him, and the darkness swallowed both of their minds. There was the stone archway again, its shimmering, ghostly veil swallowing the shape of –

'_Sirius!_'

It was like watching an explosion go off in space. The cold, aphotic atmosphere of Harry's mind ruptured silently into a burning, gushing white light. The shame, guilt and fear that poisoned the anger was replaced with rapture so powerful that, unprepared, it expelled the curse and Draco from Harry's mind in one swift tidal wave of radiance.

Draco lay on his back on the cool, dusty floor of the cave, catching his breath. Harry may not have had many, if any, truly happy memories, Draco mused, but in the face of love that strong, he didn't need them.

After he was able to breathe evenly, Draco struggled to pull himself into a sitting position. His head and chest were throbbing something terrible. Squinting in the darkness, he could see Harry, still propped against the pillar, staring vacantly past him. _Uh-oh_.

Scrambling over to him, Draco squatted beside him. 'Potter? Harry – hey,' Draco reached out to touch Harry's shoulder, and Harry jerked away so quickly he nearly fell sideways off the pillar. Draco withdrew his hand instantly, sitting back down on the cold floor.

'I,' Harry tried. His voice was rough, and sounded like it was coming from a long way off. He swallowed and tried again. 'I'm – okay. I think. Uhh.' Harry winced, rubbing at the scar on his forehead. He had not yet looked at Draco. 'What the hell was that?'

Draco massaged his hands together. 'I think it was some kind of Coniuratus curse.' Harry did look at him then, blankly. God, where was Granger when you needed her? 'It's like… think of a spell that's less of a hex and more of an… atmospheric element. One that feeds off your doubts, fears, and insecurities, and turns them against you. Sort of how a Dementor works. Only instead of sucking the happiness out of you, it gets inside your head and drives you mad before drowning you in your own misery. It's Old Dark magic. I mean, really old—like, Merlin-age curses and such. I've only seen them mentioned in a couple of history books, and even those—it's in the same league as the Horcruxes, really, not much was ever written about them, so I could be wrong, but. Uhm. Shit, I'm babbling, aren't I?' he said, laughing a bit breathlessly. 'Are you all right?'

Harry looked away and seemed to consider this. After a moment, he stood and walked over to Draco, and offered him a hand up. Draco just stared at his hand for a moment, surprised, but took it and was hoisted to his feet and found Harry looking him in the eye. They were normal again, deeply green and hugely dilated in the darkness. 'Thank you.'

Draco tried to nod and shrug at the same time, and then realised he was still naked to his waist. Harry seemed to notice, too, and looked away again. 'What happened to your shirt?'

'Buggered if I know,' Draco said, looking around. The pillars surrounded them like a maze, many of them sporting craters where Harry's spells had missed. He looked at Harry, still looking off into the middle-distance, and almost reached out but remembered Harry's reaction from before and stopped. 'Potter,' he said, and waited for Harry to look at him. 'God damn it, Harry, _look_ at me.'

Harry did look at him then, if anything surprised and a little shaken, jarred slightly by the use of his given name.

'If something like that happens again...' Draco began. _I won't be able to help you_.

No, won't was the wrong word—_couldn't_. It hurt too much.

'I remember,' Harry said, looking away again. 'I—felt it. Felt... him,' he finished, unable to say the name. 'I'll—I think I'll be all right.'

'Okay,' Draco said, with finality. Harry nodded, keeping silent. Draco was relieved that he was not alone in wanting to avoid this conversation. The whole clichéd notion that men hated to talk about their feelings was a cliché for a reason; he knew that, like him, Harry would rather face that entire ordeal all over again than continue to talk about it. 'Okay, well, now what?'

'Now we keep going,' Harry said. His voice was no longer shaken—now that they were once again heading into unknown, possibly very lethal danger, Harry Potter was back in his element. He bent to retrieve their wands, and put his flat on the palm of his hand and whispered the Four-Point spell; the wand spun in a half-circle, then wavered back, finally focusing on a direction. Harry looked up at him and tossed him back his wand. 'Ready?'

Draco wanted to point out he was feeling rather exposed, actually, and he'd feel more prepared if they could find his shirt, or possibly could he have Harry's, but that would likely cause even more distraction. 'After you, Hero.'

Harry gave him a look, but didn't bother to comment.

The pillars continued on around them. Determined not to become separated, they walked side-by-side, wands out and ready. It was so dark that Draco felt the chasm before he saw it. The pillars had suddenly fallen away into the darkness in front of them, and from the feeble light of their respective wands he could see they continued again in the distance. All that stood in their way was a massive, jagged canyon carved into the floor of the cavern. It looked about thirty yards wide, and impossibly deep.

Draco looked at Harry, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged. 'Well, we can't Apparate.'

'No,' Draco agreed, looking around. There was no debris, either, nothing they could levitate over to use a make-shift bridge. 'Too bad my Animagus form isn't something useful like a bird, I suppose.'

'That wouldn't help me,' Harry said, then paused and looked at him. 'Couldn't you transfigure a bridge?'

Draco had thought about that, too, but shook his head. 'This place is too unstable. Whatever caused that chasm in the first place points to an underlying structural issue. You don't want me to go persuading these rocks to twist and change and hope they don't collapse underneath us.'

'Right, no, you're right,' Harry said, looking away. 'That would be too easy, anyway. No, this is part of it, somehow.' He kicked at a loose stone, sending it over the edge and down, down, down into the darkness. '_Shit_.'

Harry started pacing. Draco retreated to lean against the form of a pillar and let him, alternating between watching him and looking around the cavern. The stone was rough and cold against his bare back; he was glad it was dark in here, anyway. It kept Harry from staring at him, or rather, staring at his chest.

It wasn't that the scar was horribly ugly, or anything. It was just very _obvious_. It was worst over his heart, where the scar became a twisted, knotted form before branching off up to his neck and down to his waistline. It was only a faint reminder of a wound compared to the still-pink lines leftover from the lion attack, but that was likely due to the fact that Harry wasn't as skilled as a proper Healer.

Harry laughed sharply, jarring Draco out of his musings. He was standing on the very, very edge of the chasm, close enough to make the muscles in Draco's abdomen clench involuntarily. He looked up at Draco and smiled brilliantly. 'You coming?'

'What?' Draco approached him slowly. 'Do you think you could back up? You know, before you _die?_'

'I'm not going to die,' Harry told him.

And, as if to prove his point, lifted a foot and took a step off into the abyss.

Draco went to shout, and then stopped. He glared at Harry, who was standing with one foot on the edge of the cliff, and one foot suspended on what looked like thin air. 'See?'

'I am going to _kill _you,' Draco told him, coming forward warily. 'How—how did you even—'

'Indiana Jones,' Harry said simply.

Draco just stared at him.

'Oh, right,' Harry said. 'It's a Muggle film. Point is, there's a part in one of the films where he's got to cross this big chasm, and he can't figure out how, and—well, long story short, he figures out it's a leap of faith. There's a bridge there the entire time, he just can't see it at first.'

'Bridge?' Draco asked, incredulous. 'How can there be a bridge there if you can't—I mean, magic, obviously—but you just kicked a rock over the edge!'

'Yeah, I think it only works for people,' Harry said, looking over the edge. 'Or wizards, probably. Considering who built this, I wouldn't suggest any Muggles giving it a go.' Harry looked back at him and raised his eyebrows. 'What?'

'Let me get this straight,' Draco said. 'You saw something like this in a _Muggle_ _film_ and decided it would be a good idea to step off into open space and hope for the best? Are you completely out of your mind?'

'Look, it worked, didn't it?'

'I _am_ going to kill you,' Draco told him again. 'All right. Fine. You're not in a crater, so okay, there's an invisible bridge. Great. How do we make it appear?'

'I think it's less of a bridge and more of a... well, I don't know. I mean, there is definitely a giant hole in the floor. But I think we can just... walk across.'

'Just walk across?' Draco looked at the chasm, and then at Harry. 'You _are_ out of your mind.'

'Oh, come on, it'll be fine,' Harry said, taking another step so he was standing completely on what looked like thin air. The sight made Draco want to be sick. Harry extended his left hand and smiled at him. 'Trust me.'

Draco looked at his open hand, then looked down.

_Trust me._

Closing his eyes and sighing, Draco reached out with his right—Harry caught his hand and pulled him forward, slow and steady, until Draco could feel their arms wedged firmly between them. Harry loosened his grip on Draco's hand, and for a terrifying moment Draco was worried he was going to let go, but Harry was just readjusting his grip, lacing their fingers together. Draco exhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes more tightly closed.

'Draco,' Harry said, gently. 'Open your eyes.'

Draco did, and squeezed his hand.

Beneath them in the darkness, was the night sky. Or what looked like the night sky at first – but down there surrounded by stars was an entire galaxy, planets and rocks and dust spinning around a golden, burning sun. It looked similar to the enchantment that kept the ceiling of the Great Hall mimicking the outside sky, only instead of on the ceiling it was spread out along the depths of the chasm beneath them.

Despite the obvious danger of impending death, it was actually quite breathtaking.

It took Draco a while to remember that he was, in fact, standing out in the middle of thin air. His free hand was still clasped in Harry's between them, holding on like his life depended on it. It sort of did, come to think of it.

When he looked up, Harry was looking at him, not the floor. Or lack of floor, for that matter. There was an ethereal sort of glow coming from the galaxy below them, casting exaggerated shadows across his face; his eyes, though, shone through his glasses like gems in starlight, greener than any ocean or jungle or emerald Draco had ever seen.

Draco thought rather wildly that, if he knew for a fact that the invisible force holding them up was stable and not going to randomly vanish any time soon, he might have done something rather daring and romantic, like try to kiss him.

Clearly this place was slowly driving him insane. He cleared his throat, which made Harry blink. 'I told you we should have brought the bloody brooms,' he muttered.

Harry grinned, his shoulder gently grazing against Draco's as he turned around. He didn't let go of Draco's hand, though. 'What fun would that have been?'

When they reached the other side, Draco would have collapsed in relief if Harry still hadn't been holding on to him. In fact, Harry seemed to have no intention of dropping his hand. He was holding on firmly, fingers still entwined with Draco's, and Draco wanted desperately to return the pressure but was worried if he did, Harry would remember himself and let go.

He didn't want Harry to let go. They might be walking into their certain deaths at any moment, but, somehow, Harry's reassuring grip on his hand made him feel better about it.

: : :

It was the first time in Hermione's life that she had ever felt the pressing urge for a drink, and now she couldn't have one.

'This is ridiculous.'

'You're telling me,' Ginny said, and knocked back her pumpkin juice like it was a shot.

'Have you told him?'

'No. Have you?'

'No.'

'Well, I think my excuse is a pretty good one,' Ginny went on. 'What's yours?'

'He's your brother. Take a guess.'

'Huh. All right, fair enough. Still, he _is_ my brother. You should tell him.'

'Of course I'll tell him. Eventually. In another seven months, perhaps.'

'Oh, please,' Ginny said, refilling her juice. 'At least you don't have to explain to your mother why you've having one man's child while dating another. And out of wedlock, for that matter.'

'Well, you could get engaged at least—secretly, obviously—couldn't you?'

'Er.'

'Oh my god, Ginny, really? He proposed? When?'

'Six months,' Luna said, returning from the kitchen with a biscuit, 'two weeks and three days ago, to be precise.'

'It's really annoying when you do that,' Ginny informed her grumpily.

'Anyway, I just—we're so _young_,' Hermione continued, exasperated. 'I'm not even halfway to thirty, I've still got three years with the Inquisitorial Department before I'm up for promotion, I've not even thought of settling down and Ron and I aren't even _together—_'

'Oh, come on,' Ginny interrupted. 'You two are always together, officially or not. You've been in the perpetual state of an old married couple since you were eleven.'

Hermione just gaped at her while Luna snickered. 'Well, she's right. Even when Ronald was with Lavender, he was just doing it to make you jealous.'

'Thanks for reminding me.' Hermione huffed. 'I've been so careful—I mean, what's the use of magic if it doesn't work one-hundred percent of the time?'

'Well, you could always—' Ginny made a vague motion with her hand. 'You know. Terminate. I know Muggles have their own tricks, but magic makes it literally painless.'

'It's not just my decision, though, is it?'

'That's really up to you,' Luna chimed in. 'Daddy told me it's always a woman's choice, what she does with her own body. But I can see why you'd feel that way. It does take two, after all.'

'Which brings you back to telling him,' Ginny pointed out.

'Well it's not like we got pregnant on _purpose_,' Hermione said.

Ginny took a very long swig of her juice.

'Ginny... did he _know?_'

'Do you think he'd have let me?' Ginny snapped, suddenly defensively. 'Fuck, Hermione, every time he leaves I never even know if he's coming back. Of course he didn't know I was trying.'

Hermione settled back into the couch and threw an arm across her eyes. 'Oh, hell.'

: : :

They walked in silence through the forest of pillars for another five minutes, before it ended rather abruptly. With only their wands for light, all they could see is that the space they now found themselves in was part of the same cavern, but had a much higher ceiling that spiralled off into the darkness. The floor was different, too. Rough, natural stone had given way to elegantly carved tiles that, from what Draco could see just around them, suggested an overall circular pattern. The lines twisted and weaved through the stone, their polished surface glinting from his _Lumos_, as if enticing him to follow.

'I should have brought a bloody torch,' Harry said irritably, making Draco jump.

It was the first thing Harry had said since crossing the chasm. Draco took a deep breath and flexed his fingers; Harry, obviously thinking he wanted his hand back, loosened his hold as if to drop his hand. Draco redoubled his grip and stared resolutely off into the darkness. He could feel Harry's eyes on him, questioning, but he thankfully remained silent.

A gentle tug against his hand indicated that Harry was moving again and Draco let him lead. The room, from what they could tell in the dim light and the echo of their footsteps, was expansive and open. It wasn't long until they reached the centre, where the circular tiles converged around an ornately carved altar, about the size of a coffin, supporting a wide brazier. Bringing his wand to the rectangular basin, Harry's wand illuminated a large pile of debris, consisting of what looked like dried roots. It smelled musty but looked very flammable.

Harry looked back at him; Draco shrugged. 'Would help to have the light.'

Harry nodded and, after a muttered '_Nox_' pointed his wand at the jumble and said, '_Incendio_.'

The effect was immediate; the fire roared to life, spreading rapidly, bathing the room in amber light. Draco looked down and, squatting down to make sure he wasn't seeing things, peered closely at the floor. The polished lines sparkled and winked in the light, and Draco realised quite suddenly why the Dark Lord had chosen this cavern as his personal vault.

Every surface of the room was naturally embedded with _gold_.

'Holy hell,' Draco heard himself say.

Draco felt Harry's hand tighten in his, grip vice-like. It actually kind of hurt. 'What?' Harry was staring straight ahead, eyes wide, and face as white as a ghost. Draco stood up, following his gaze, and froze.

It must have been twenty-feet tall, the front half rearing off the floor, another thirty feet of tail coiled behind it. A bright red plume rose out of the crest between the Basilisk's eyes, mouth wide-open in a frozen hiss. Its eyes were closed. It wasn't breathing. But everything about it said it was very, very real.

And there, clasped in its open mouth, was a small, golden cup.

'Oh, God,' he heard Harry say beside him. He was looking over his shoulder at something.

Draco turned to look and suddenly wanted to throw up.

Directly behind them, far too close for comfort and arranged in a semi-circle to face the red-crested Basilisk, were six _more_. They were smaller, probably females, since they were all lacking plumes of their own. They also had their eyes and mouths closed, heads inclined with that looked like submission to the larger one in front.

Draco turned back around to face the frozen Basilisk in front of them. It was almost directly above the brazier; the smoke from the fire swirled up and around its open mouth. The golden cup between its teeth glinted in the firelight.

'Is that...' Draco began, staring.

'_Yes_.'

Harry made to move around the brazier altar, then halted when he realised he was still gripping Draco's hand and that Draco wasn't moving.

'This is wrong,' Draco said, looking once again at the Basilisks behind him and back to the massive one before them. 'Potter, these are _real_. They've been Petrified!'

'Good,' Harry said, giving his hand a squeeze before letting go. 'Then they won't bother us. Give me a hand up, would you?'

Draco followed him around the other side of the altar with a rather large amount of trepidation. Petrified or not, the Basilisks looked alive enough to be breathing. Sighing, Draco joined his hands together, fingers tightly entwined and squatted to place his hand on the top of his thigh. Harry placed one hand on his shoulder, fingertips gripping the bare flesh, and then delicately placed his right foot on Draco's hands.

Draco heaved him upwards, but Harry still fell a good three or four feet short of the height. He came back down heavily, stumbling. 'Blast,' he muttered.

'_Accio_ might be easier,' Draco suggested, dusting off his hands. The Basilisks had distracted them before, but he was beginning to feel a bit self-conscious in the bright light from the fire. Not that his body was anything to be ashamed of; he knew he was beautiful, and he was proud of the fact. He was not proud of the scar, though, a constant reminder of that horrible year and how close to death he had come—and a constant, vivid, sometimes very painful indicator to Harry's moods, particularly when he was angry.

'No, that won't work,' Harry said. 'He wouldn't make it that easy.'

'All right,' Draco said, concentrating. 'How about this?'

Harry turned around and blinked. 'Oh,' he said, and then smiled. 'Yeah, that'll do.'

The hair on his neck tickled as Harry wove his hand through the horse's mane and hauled himself up. It was no longer an awkward exercise; the motion was fluid, confident, familiar. Draco shifted beneath him, then slowly angled his larger form directly underneath the mouth of the frozen Basilisk.

'Good thing your Animagus form is something useful, like a big ruddy horse,' Harry said, leaning down over his neck, breath hot against the back of his ears. 'Try to hold still, okay? I'm going to have to stand up.'

Draco snorted to show he understood, and did his best to keep still. He could feel Harry's hands move down his neck to the centre of his back, his legs sliding up his sides as he brought his shins to rest behind them.

Even as a horse, the touch left his skin tingling.

When Harry stood up, slowly, hands out to keep his balance, Draco winced inwardly. The hard soles of his shoes against the spine of the horse was uncomfortable, but bearable. He tilted his head to look up, and could see Harry reaching into the mouth of the creature, taking one handle of the cup with a slow, careful grasp.

He struggled with it for a moment, cursing, but managed to dislodge it with some delicate wriggling. Coming back down was more awkward, especially one-handed. Harry nearly fell off as he came to rest on Draco's back, still clutching the cup.

'This is definitely it,' Harry said, wincing. 'Damn thing is heavy. Hurts, too.'

He didn't let it go, though. Draco didn't even notice him dismount; the horse's senses were kicking in, and the animal was getting uneasy. There was a faint crackling noise that he originally thought was coming from the fire, but was slowly getting louder and more obvious.

There was also a pungent scent that he hadn't noticed before; it was musty, with a sharp edge. It reminded the human part of Draco of the crisp bite from a menthol cigarette. The horse's nostrils flared, and Draco tried to identify it, but it was hard to do with the horse's simple brain in the way.

Harry was looking critically around the room. 'That's weird,' he said. 'Still feels like that was too easy, somehow. Are you going to stay like that? I don't know if the bridge'll work if you're a horse.'

Draco popped back, grimacing. The crackling noise was still there, fainter to his human ears, but he could still recognise it. 'Do you hear that?'

'Hear what?'

Draco walked back towards the altar and froze. _That smell..._

He felt all the blood drain from his body in one swift intake of breath and spun around.

Harry was still standing underneath the male Basilisk, staring at the cup as he slowly turned it over in his hands. When Draco looked up, it was just in time to see the lid of the serpent's eye twitch and slowly begin to open.

'Close your eyes!'

'What?' Harry said, looking up at him. 'What's—'

'Harry, the roots!' Draco, eyes cast purposefully at Harry, pointed at the fire. '_Mandrake!_'

Harry stared at him for a moment, his face contracting slightly, and then in the span of a heartbeat going slack with dread. _'Go!_'

: : :

* * *

**A/N**: Don't look at me like that. You know you love the cliffies.


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Live Like We're Dying

Just for the record, I currently live in a cave. In Siberia. Guarded by fifteen starving, rabid, man-eating Rottweilers.

Unicorns and rainbows for queenie mab, who kept me writing via word-wars late into the night to get this done; alligatorxsmile and girljim for combing this monster for errors, continuity/canon checks, tense-issues and typos; extra unicorns for groolover, who did all of those things, added a few semicolons (!), _and_ Brit-picked. You guys are tireless and prompt and I would be lost without your guidance. I am forever your servant.

Quotes from K. Allen & Cyndi Lauper, who kept me company late at night writing and editing. **Note to the canon-thumping**: I had several long chats with folks about the Random Capitalisation that JKR seems to suffer from. For instance, as groolover pointed out, she not only capitalises the animals _she's_ invented (ie, Fwooper, Clabbert, Threstal...) but a few she did not (including "Basilisk"). She does not, however, capitalise - for example - "unicorn" or "dragon". This annoys me to no end. There's no consistency to it that any of us can see. So, for the purposes of not gouging my own eyes out, I've decided to follow the standard protocol when writing out an animal's name - lower case, unless it's got a name (ie, Fawkes). In addition, the 'scrunts' were inspired by _Lady In The Water_, for those of you who've seen it. I've taken some artistic license with the beasts themselves, but kept the name as it seemed to fit the universe JKR set up (fwoopers and clabberts, I ask you).

* * *

XIII  
**Live Like We're Dying**

_you never know a good thing until it's gone_  
_never see a crash until it's head on_  
_why do we think we're right_  
_when we're dead wrong_

: : : : :

The night of Harry's twentieth birthday was the only time Blaise had ever stayed the night. Harry had woken up alongside him, their naked limbs tangled and sticky, smelling strongly of sweat and sex and stale tequila.

If Dobby had been around, he had enough sense to keep out of sight as Blaise gratefully accepted the coffee Harry brewed for him; he hadn't even bothered to put on a pair of trousers before coming into the kitchen, sucking down the steaming liquid in one long swallow. Placing the cup on the counter, Blaise had swaggered off to take a shower and Harry had stood there in his jeans, looking at the red trails on his chest and hips and shoulders, and finished his coffee. Then Harry had kicked off his jeans, walked right into the shower and found himself thrown up against the wall.

It was just so _weird_. How could he have gone through seven years of school and two years of adult life without ever – well, all right, maybe it sort of explained the hero-worship thing for Cedric and the unhealthy need to be around Sirius constantly – but he'd never even been _conciously_ attracted to a guy before. Not _sexually_. Harry could acknowledge if another bloke was easy on the eyes, sure, but he'd never thought about – well, frankly, having their wand up his arse.

Literally.

Blaise always seemed to know when Ron wasn't home and he would burst into Harry's flat like some sort of desperate madman. It was always like a fight. Harry would then find himself on his bed or on the floor, or more commonly against a wall, with Blaise up against him and his thighs over Blaise's hips and Blaise's teeth at his neck like some frenzied vampire that had been starved of blood for a century. Harry would fight back but Blaise always won because Harry would let him.

Harry didn't really mind; the sensation of the cool, laminated surface of the wall against his back, biting at his shoulder blades, and the hot, firm skin of Blaise's chest against his own, fulfilled some deep, carnal hunger inside them both. And Blaise didn't care about the Parseltongue, he even sort of liked it, or at least Harry thought he did from the way he encouraged it. Blaise didn't exactly talk a lot, during the sex. Or at all, really, but Harry didn't care. He began to find himself waiting impatiently for the nights Blaise would find him alone and tear into him until he was numb.

And it always hurt. It hurt during and even afterwards, when Harry would wake and find Blaise had gone. His throat always left his throat raw from the laboured, snake-like sounds Blaise forced him to make, lips swollen and aching from Blaise's teeth. There would always be bruises on his thighs from Blaise's fingers, his shoulders from being slammed repeatedly against any number of hard surfaces, and his neck, God his neck, which Blaise would ravish because it drove Harry up whatever wall he was pinned against, drawing out every hiss and snarl by force, driving away any sense except that of pure, unadulterated pleasure. Harry would later try to heal himself but there were so many, everywhere, that he always missed a few. He would find them later in the shower he took the following morning and it would ignite the slick, burning desire all over again, forcing him to run the water cold.

It became an irregular pattern, a guilty pleasure that Harry could live with. He wasn't ready to declare that he was a homosexual, or even at least willing to fly both ways. He wasn't ready to tell anyone in confidence, not even his friends (the idea of Ron's reaction alone would keep him quiet to the grave, surely), and he wasn't even sure himself if he was just doing this out of an enormous amount of guilt and a desperate need for sex. Then again, maybe it was just _Blaise_. Aside from possessing a truly shocking amount of courage and emotional strength, Blaise was a bigger prick than anyone Harry knew, Ron included. But there was something about the way the man just took control and accepted Harry for his faults that Harry was supremely grateful for, and Harry was more than a little bit worried he might be actually falling for the bastard.

For a year, everything was fine, or as fine as a semi-regular sex life for Harry could be. Things were actually sort of okay. They weren't – _anything_ – not officially, not even unofficially, but it was kind of nice, whatever it was, to have someone he could just dive into and let go, not to have to worry if they were worrying, didn't have to be scared of being too rough or too hard; able to just lose himself in the feeling and release and hiss and snarl and have eyes that could see clearly in the dark.

Blaise continued his work for the Death Eaters, undetected against all odds, and he came and went whenever he had time, which happened more and more often once Ron moved out. Harry passed his training and got his certification, a pay raise, and his licence to kill. And then it was Harry's birthday again, and Blaise was there, lurking in the shadows on the outskirts of the room, eyes watching Harry from a safe distance, waiting for his friends to leave.

Ginny had found Blaise that night, her mood light and easy with alcohol, and asked him to dance.

Blaise had kissed her before she left for the night, slow and teasing and all lingering promises, and Harry had been so angry, so jealous, that the moment he and Blaise were alone he'd thrown him up against the table in the kitchen, Blaise's back against his chest, teeth at his shoulder, hand twisting in his hair, terrible inhuman sounds rolling off his tongue.

That was the last time, but Harry hadn't been aware of it until later – Ginny had sobered up and decided she'd really enjoyed that kiss, or something. Apparently she couldn't have Harry risk his own life to save the _entire world_, but Blaise risking his life for _Harry_ and a chance, a tiny chance that he could help, well, that was all right for some reason. The complete unfairness of the entire ordeal sent Harry over some wild edge, and it was probably for the best that he didn't see Blaise for a while, because Blaise was now spending his free time with Ginny. He wanted to hurt him, to hurt _her_, which was unfair too, and just made him angrier. He had no idea what to tell Ron and he suspected Hermione had figured it out, because she was the only one who had known about Blaise anyway, and he shut himself away with his duties, off and on the record, working until he collapsed, exhausted, too tired to even dream.

A few weeks later, Blaise had dropped in for his usual monthly report to the Order. Harry had opened the door, taken one long look at him, and punched him in the face.

: : : : :

They were holding hands again.

Granted, it was mostly due to the fact that even with the tip of Harry's wand lit to keep them from running into a pillar, they'd easily become separated in the darkness. Draco's grip was vice-like, fingernails digging painfully into his knuckles, but Harry easily ignored the pain. He had bigger problems.

Like _seven bloody __basilisk__s_ on their tail.

When they ran out of the circular room, leaving behind the dimming fire, the beasts had already begun to move. Behind them, he could hear hisses and what sounded like a mix between a yawn and a snarl.

How long had they been down here? Hermione said the reserve had been set up in... 1947, if he remembered correctly. So just over fifty years?

Not far behind them, something roared. It sounded hungry.

All right, all right, he told himself, trying very hard not to panic – you've fought a basilisk before. He'd only been twelve, but then again, he'd had _help_. While Draco had perhaps not been completely useless over the time he'd spent with them, Harry honestly couldn't think of anything he could contribute here. Except possibly being something else to eat.

When Harry had used the Killing Curse on the basilisk in the Manor, he'd only been half-sure it'd actually work. But the one in the Manor was about a half the size of the biggest one they'd found in here. Still, it might work... but he'd need a clear shot. The pillars in this cave would likely ricochet the curse, and it might hit one of them instead.

How the hell was he supposed to get a clear shot if he couldn't even look at his target?

Hungry hisses followed them as they ran through the darkness. Harry was supremely grateful that Draco couldn't understand them.

_'Why do you run?'_

_'We will find you.'_

_'Catch you.'_

_'Kill you.'_

_'Why do you run?'_

_'You cannot hide from us.'_

_'We are so very hungry.'_

Harry slammed to a halt. Draco, connected to his hand, nearly dislocated Harry's arm as he slid to a stop. 'What the – Potter? We're going to be eaten? Are you all right? If you're tired I can – '

Harry reeled him in and slapped a hand over his mouth. Draco glared at him.

'_Shh_. I have an idea.'

'Oh, wulin _tha _cas,' Draco said against his palm, rolling his eyes.

Harry dropped his hand, pulled Draco against a pillar with him and, very careful to keep his eyes cast at the ground, peered around it.

The dying fire left by the mandrake roots cast the room into long, barred shadows. There was no sign of anything scaly. This didn't exactly reassure him, but it gave him a moment to catch his breath and concentrate.

'This isn't an idea like the one that got your arm nearly blown off, is it?' Draco hissed behind him.

Harry put his back to the pillar. 'That plan _worked_. And be quiet. I need to focus.'

Speaking Parseltongue still took a lot of concentration. Not so much speaking the words, but keeping the images they caused at bay – it was like some disconnected part of himself that used to belong to Voldemort would rise up any time he purposely used the skill, flooding him with a violent, twisted feeling that made him want to be sick.

Closing his eyes, Harry focussed on that part of himself, and could _feel_ the change. His mind was filled with scales and yellow eyes and venomous teeth. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

It was as if a light had been switched on in the cavern. He could see _everything, _from the sparkling of the gold ore embedded in the pillars to the massive chasm off in the distance. He could see the individual dust particles they'd kicked up floating in the air, and the tiny beads of moisture congregating on the ceiling above them. He looked at Draco, who was _glowing _in his vision, flickering in time to the beat of his heart.

Harry wondered if this was how the basilisks saw them. Probably.

Draco looked at his eyes and stiffened, immediately dropping his hand. 'Potter,' he said.

'I'm okay,' Harry said, looking away. 'I'm just, I needed to – '

Something large and heavy slithered up behind the pillar. Draco shut his eyes and winced, grabbing at Harry's hand and re-threading their fingers together. Harry closed his eyes, but did so calmly, careful not to lose the power he was desperately relying on. He gave Draco's hand a reassuring squeeze.

'_Stop_,' Harry said.

The hissing stopped, and so did the slithering. Harry took a deep breath, taking care to keep his eyes shut, and stepped around the pillar into the open.

He could _feel_ it breathing. The hot air blasted across his face, less putrid than he'd imagined snake-breath would be. He could just imagine those fangs, dripping with venom, just inches from his face...

'_Close your eyes,_' he commanded.

Harry suddenly learned it was not just one that had found them, but _three_.

'_He speaks the tongue!_'

'_Is it Master?_'

'_It is not Master._'That was the one closest to him, the hisses rolling off his face as it snarled, '_Kill him!_'

'_He speaks the tongue!_'

'_Master spoke the tongue._'

'_He is not Master!_'said the one beside him again. '_Kill him._'

Harry didn't wait for them to finish arguing. The one beside him was so close there was no chance he could miss his target. He raised his wand, and shouted the incantation.

Green flashed in his vision behind his eyelids. There was a shriek to his right, and something large crumpled to the ground in front of him. He stumbled blindly back around the pillar, shooting another curse behind him just in case he got lucky, and only opened his eyes when Draco redoubled his grip and took off running in the opposite direction.

One down, only six to go.

: : :

_sometimes I'm afraid of the dark_  
_I can't find the light in my heart_  
_I can see my hand pushing away _  
_as hard as I can_

: : :

_The Scent flowed across the great plains like a golden road. Other odours mixed with it, some leaving, some remaining along the journey; these were grey like the landscapes, because those did not concern them. They followed their prey hungrily, the promise of freedom pushing them faster. The light would be back soon, and they would have to rest. _

_Across a river and in a rocky alcove the Scent had paused. It had spent time here, filling the space with its essence. Another scent had joined it again, but that did not matter. Only the Scent mattered. Their prey meant freedom._

_They followed the trails into another jungle, the deep canopy keeping them sheltered from the growing light. Even still, they became weary. They would have to rest, and soon._

_But that did not matter. The light would eventually leave, and when it did, they would find their prey. Nothing else mattered._

: : :

Draco had never in his life run so fast on two legs.

Morphing into a horse had occurred to him. It would get him where he was going – away from _here_ – a lot faster. It would get them _both _out of here faster.

But the horse would be beside itself with panic. The smell of the basilisks would be alien, and all predator. There were seven – six, now – of the God-damned things, and the horse would be lost in a dark maze of stone pillars. The horse would stumble, scream, and be lucky if the pain of a broken leg would cause it to pass out before the serpents' teeth tore into it.

They rounded a pillar and used it for support to catch their breath. The short daisho blade tucked into Draco's belt clanged against the stone. Draco blinked; he'd completely forgotten about the sword. Not that it'd do him much good against six sodding basilisks. He took a deep breath, the coarse, chilly stone against his back cooling him down. Around his neck, the ring on its silver chain stuck to his chest with a mixture of dust and sweat.

He still had Harry's hand in a death-grip. Draco dropped his hand and started to massage some life back into his fingers. Harry did the same, panting. The cup dangled at his side; he'd somehow threaded one of the handles through his belt while they were running to keep both hands free.

'We're lost,' Draco panted quietly, 'aren't we?'

Harry quickly used the Four-Point spell, squinting in the low light. The yellow in his eyes had faded as soon as he'd killed the first beast, and, considering the circumstances, it made Draco feel marginally better.

Harry said, 'It should be just ahead.'

'You said that five minutes ago.'

'Yeah, well,' Harry snapped, 'why don't I follow _you_ for a change?'

A hiss, far too close for comfort, echoed from the forest of stone behind them.

'You killed one before,' Draco said, as they both squeezed closer together behind the pillar. 'You've killed _three_.'

'There's _six left_,' Harry pointed out unnecessarily. 'And I don't think they're going to fall for that again.'

'The Dark Lord's just upped the ante,' Draco said reasonably. 'How'd you kill the first one? In the Chamber, I mean.'

'Fawkes pecked out its eyes, and then I shoved a sword in its mouth.'

'A _phoenix_ helped you?'

'I was twelve!'

'Where'd you get a _sword?_'

A snarl to their right ceased all disagreements rather quickly; Harry grabbed Draco by the wrist and dragged him further into darkness.

A sword. _A sword!_

'Potter!'

'Will you _shut up,_ they can _hear us _– '

Draco unsheathed the sword and shoved it into his hand. Harry blinked at it, then looked at him like he was insane. 'What the hell am I supposed to do with this?'

'I forgot to bring my pocket phoenix, sorry,' Draco drawled. 'Look, it's something, isn't it?'

A wave of hisses in the darkness beyond begged to differ. Harry stared at the sword in his hands and seem to come to a decision.

'We should split up.'

A _stupid_ decision.

'Yeah, great, I'll just see you in Hell, shall I?'

There was a leathery sound to the left, and something roared. Both of them took off – in different directions.

Draco didn't like the idea of splitting up, even if it was the smartest move. The odds weren't in his favour. But the creatures hunting them hadn't given him the luxury of making that decision.

The terrible thing about this blasted cave was that, with all the pillars, it was impossible to get a sense of direction. Whenever they were sure they were heading towards the chasm, they ended up going deeper into a stone forest that had no inclination of ending. How far did this underground cavern go on? Remembering the unending depth of the chasm, Draco did not want to think about it. For all he knew, there was some sort of spell in place that kept turning them around. It would be hard enough to find their way without seven – sorry, _six_ – death-machines chasing them around.

Aside from his wand, Blaise's sword had been the only weapon Draco had on him. He knew how to use it against human opponents, but couldn't even fathom how it would be any use against a bloody basilisk with his eyes closed. Still, he had his wand. He didn't think he could cast a Killing Curse even if his life depended on it, but there had to be _something_...

As he ran, he racked his brain for what he knew about basilisks. He'd learned about them in school a bit, but mostly Hagrid had just gone on and on about how they were woefully misunderstood creatures. Right. Draco'd like to see what the big oaf would do if it were _him_ trapped down in this hellhole.

Okay. What did he know? Breeding them was illegal, but easy. Only Parselmouths had any sort of control over them, and Harry had already tried that – obviously, these serpents held allegiance to the Dark Lord. That, or they didn't particularly like the idea of being ordered to line up for a massacre. They had poisonous fangs, but those were mostly an afterthought since they primarily killed by locking gazes with their target. That made sense – the difference between predators and their prey was that the predator always made eye contact. They had no fear. They were at least as intelligent as other snakes, but since Draco had never conversed with snakes he had no idea what that meant. Females were smaller than the males, which had red crests like cocks, a hint to their fowl ancestry.

Well, great, what did that leave him with?

As Draco started to tire, another hiss to his left gave him another burst of adrenaline. With only the dim light of his wand to see his way, he tripped over something heavy and went sprawling to the ground. Spluttering in the muddy dust, he scrambled to his feet and shone his light back at the offending item – a rock, about the size of a Quaffle. Most of the rocks on the ground were merely pebbles: odd.

Draco thought about what he knew, and got an idea. He pointed his wand at the rock and concentrated.

The basilisk trailing him rounded the pillar. He had his eyes closed, but he could _hear_ the damn thing sidle up to him, hot breath messing his hair and hissing curiously at this prey that had halted so suddenly. Draco silently uttered his goodbyes, adjusted the wiggling, feathery bundle in his hands, and said: 'Boo.'

Shoving the transfigured fowl at the general direction of the serpent, Draco prayed to Merlin he'd remembered Hagrid's stupid monster book right: _Spiders flee before the basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it._

The cock stopped struggling long enough to give a quizzical 'Wra?' and the basilisk shrieked.

Draco waited a long, terrifying moment before opening a wary eye, peering at the ground before him. There was a huge track in the dust marking where the basilisk had been before turning around and, apparently, fleeing the very confused rooster in his hands.

The fowl turned around to look at him, cocking its head. 'Buk ?'

Draco resisted the urge to kiss it. 'I will never eat poultry again,' he promised it.

Now if only he knew how to make them crow on command, he thought, gratefully sucking in huge lungfuls of air.

He put the bird down carefully. 'All right,' he told the cock, 'it's just you and me against the world, buddy.' He trained his wand on it and said, '_Engorgio_.'

: : :

Bill shielded his eyes as he watched the horizon from a high perch in the baobab tree. The rising sun was pale pink, casting a pastel glow over the jungle. Beneath the canopy, the jungle began to come to life. He could hear the distant squabble of clabberts intertwined with the music of fwoopers. They were running out of time. He was honestly surprised the animal hadn't already returned. Like their leopard cousins, nundu were primarily nocturnal creatures. The fact that this nest was empty when they got here told Bill that whatever lived here – _still_ lived here, as some of the bones couldn't have been more than a few days old – would be back any minute.

Harry and Draco had been gone since sunset. This didn't worry Bill much – _one_ of them would manage to get off a Patronus if something horrible happened and they required aid – but he was much more worried about what would happen when this damn cat got home and found prey had wandered so conveniently into its den.

Pulling out his wand, he muttered an incantation, and the silvery falcon bloomed into view in a flurry of incorporeal feathers. 'Harry,' he told it, 'it's sunrise. We're out of time. Finish up whatever it is you're doing and get yourselves up here.'

The falcon keened quietly at him and, in a sweep of silver wings, disappeared down the hole.

Bill left the nest to double-check the wards he'd set up earlier. Still nothing. Sighing in relief and hoping Harry moved his arse, he pulled himself up into the branches of a nearby tree to wait.

: : :

Harry stumbled to a halt against a pillar. He could _feel_ the vast... well, vastness of the chasm nearby. He didn't dare light his wand for guidance, though. Besides, what if Draco hadn't made it across yet? He'd be a sitting duck over here alone. At least with the two of them separated, the basilisks had to split up, too.

He hadn't meant to leave Draco on his own. Splitting up _was _the best move but that didn't make him feel any better about it. Harry wasn't sure what he could do against six basilisks on his own but somehow, some solution always presented itself. He was, as Draco liked to put it, rather lucky in the mortality department. Harry had never got himself into a mess he couldn't get out of.

The same couldn't always be said for his friends, though.

Damn! There was nothing for it. He'd have to go back for him. But how? It was one thing to run away from an enemy you couldn't look at through a cave too dark to see your own feet in. It was another to go looking for someone _while also_ doing those things. Harry tucked his wand away in his jeans and gripped the sword in his right hand. He could feel the pulse of magic from the wand in the hilt. He wondered if he could cast a Killing Curse from an unfamiliar wand... if his life depended on it, probably.

Tightening his grip, Harry closed his eyes, listened to the hisses following him through the darkness, and concentrated.

When he opened his eyes, he could see clearly again. Right. Not so helpful if he ran face-first into one of the serpents, but... yes, there it was. Draco's heartbeat was a dead give away. He couldn't hear it so much as _feel_ it, almost see it with his eyes. It seemed stronger than before, and was heading right towards him...

Harry moved towards it, not a second too late, as jaws snapped down right where his head had been a moment before.

Harry shut his eyes instinctively and spun, slashing blindly behind him with the sword. The blade connected with the hard stone of a pillar and Harry dropped down and rolled to his right, trying to put as much distance between him and the creature as he could.

It rolled him right into another one.

He could feel the scales against his face, cold and smooth and _moving_ as the animal reared up. Gripping the sword in both hands, he waited until he could feel the hot breath of the basilisk immediately over his head before shoving the sword directly upwards, _hard_.

The scream, so close, deafened him momentarily and left his ears ringing. He yanked the sword out of its mouth as the animal gurgled and thrashed, and staggered sideways to his feet, opening his eyes just enough to see where he was going, gaze directed at the ground. He stumbled over the seizing body of the basilisk he had stabbed – a female, it had to be, the male was larger – and behind the nearest pillar. Where had the other one gone? Harry tried to shut out the echoing shriek in his ears and listen, but it was no good. He had only moments, he was sure, before –

A blinding flash of light erupted behind his eyelids; something close to his left snarled loudly in surprise and Harry slashed blindly at it, shouting the Killing Curse in his mind. The following flash of green told him he'd somehow managed to cast the spell, but there was no answering thud to tell the spell had struck its target.

Amongst the snarls and the ringing, Harry thought he could hear Bill's voice.

' – sunrise – out of – here – '

_Working on it!_ Harry wanted to shout back, and it probably wouldn't have made any difference – with the noise these two beasts had caused, the other four were probably honing in on them already. Good, Harry thought, maybe Draco would take the opportunity to get the hell out of there.

If they hadn't already got to him, that was.

Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, Harry ran forward and then to his left, trying to put as much distance between himself and his current pursuer as possible. He took another turn and smashed his right shoulder into a pillar, which threw him sideways, where he rebounded off something large, rather soft and... feathery?

Harry landed on his arse in the dust. Behind him, he could hear the basilisk slither around the pillar he'd crashed into, hissing maniacally. Harry looked carefully to his left as he struggled to his knees, and saw the long body flowing between the pillars. It was the male; had to be. None of the females had been that insanely large. _Shit_.

'_Catch you, kill you, eat you..._'

Harry started to move, but a three-toed, scaly foot stomped down in his path. Skittering to the side, Harry blinked up at the rather horrifying beast before him. The rooster was about the size of a van. It cocked its head to the side, regarding the basilisk behind Harry as if it were a particularly large piece of corn.

'Buh-caw?'

The basilisk roared in defiance, making Harry cringe and scramble further behind the pillar, peeking out so he could just see the giant-size fowl and keeping the basilisk's eyes well out of view. The engorged cock must have sighted the red crest on the basilisk's head, because it immediately puffed itself up and crowed:

'KRAH EH-RUH ERHUUUUU!'

The sound reverberated off every nearby surface, causing Harry to clamp his hands hard over his ears. The male basilisk shrieked one long, high note before collapsing to the floor, shaking the pillar Harry was hidden behind. Bits of rock and dust fluttered down from the ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, another basilisk screamed and thudded to the floor.

Harry peeked out from behind the pillar. The rooster was normal-sized again, apparently spent now that its mission was accomplished. It pecked at the basilisk's dead, open eyes.

Something grabbed his shoulder. Harry nearly decapitated it.

'Easy,' Draco said, ducking despite the fact that Harry had caught himself. 'Just me. Did you meet my new friend?' He pointed at the cock. 'Clarence, Potter. Potter, Clarence.'

Harry gripped the hand on his shoulder and shut his eyes in relief; Draco gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. 'Where did you find a rooster?' Harry asked.

'I sort of invented this one. Are you all right? Can we go?'

'How many did it kill?'

'Including this one and the one chasing after me? Two. I don't know if the others heard him crow and I really don't fancy hanging around to find out. Do you?'

'No,' Harry said. He opened his eyes and leaned down to the male's head, prying its mouth open with the sword. Four canines gleamed in the low-light, long and unbroken. 'But first, give me a hand.'

: : :

Level nine was a maze. Half the doors in the basement of the Ministry weren't actually doors at all; probably the same charm Hogwarts employed that had solid walls just pretending. The other half were either locked shut with enough spells to perplex even Hermione, or led off into dark rooms full of noises that would make even Harry hesitate.

Unspeakables were hard enough to lasso into a pre-arranged meeting. Half the time, they didn't bother to show. Ron had a sneaking suspicion they sent invisible little spies along in their place just to see if anything was interesting while the agents amused themselves downstairs.

Ron didn't have time for a meeting or stupid Unspeakable games. He needed to talk to someone _now_.

The report couldn't be right. It had to be some sort of joke.

'I know you bastards know I'm down here!' he shouted down the long, empty hallway. 'I swear to Merlin if I have to burn down every room in this place, I will!'

The hallway did not answer. Cursing, Ron flung open the nearest unlocked door and, upon seeing nothing but a dark room full of dusty boxes piled high, turned his wand on them and set them ablaze.

The boxes screamed, sprouted little arms and legs and began to run around the room hysterically. Ron slammed the door, opened another, and aimed his wand.

'All right, all right!'

A figure had appeared in the hall, not ten feet away. It was wearing the slate-grey robes of an Unspeakable and a full-faced mask, not unlike that of a Death Eater. Ron turned his wand on it. 'I need to talk to someone,' he told it.

The figure did not raise hands in defence, but tilted its head and regarded him for a moment. 'Anyone in particular?' The voice sounded vaguely female.

'One of _you_,' Ron snapped, not lowering his wand. For all he knew, it was just an illusion anyway. 'Preferably someone in charge. I'm not picky.'

'May I at least enquire what about?'

Ron held up the file clasped tightly in his other hand. 'Does the name _Croaker_ ring a bell?'

'Oh dear,' said the figure. 'Perhaps you should come with us, Mr Weasley.'

Ron blinked and glanced behind him. Two more figures, shrouded like the first, held wands trained at his back. Ron lowered his wand and returned his gaze to the first. He knew better than to ask their identities. It was a criminal offence to threaten an Auror, but even the lowest Unspeakable out-ranked even Robards. They did not have names at work. Some of them never left.

He nodded, and followed the figure down the hall. The two behind him did not lower their wands, and followed about five paces behind. They took several seemingly random turns, until the figure ahead tapped a nondescript brick and a wall slid aside, revealing a brightly-lit office.

There was nothing in the office that shed any light on the owner's identity. No family photos that were so frequently seen inside the cubicles upstairs, no Quidditch posters, not even a personal cloak. The lead figure took a seat behind the desk and conjured a chair before it, motioning that Ron should take a seat.

He did. The figures behind him melted back into the hallway, and the figure before him removed the mask.

He didn't recognise the face. It didn't matter – the features were too clean, too perfect – obviously, some Glamour was at work. Ron wondered why she'd bothered with the mask.

'Now, Mr Weasley, what can I do for you?'

'That depends. Who're you?'

The woman glanced down at her desk, lifting up a piece of parchment to peer at what lay beneath. She had violet eyes, ebony skin and, from what he could see of her forearms as the sleeves of her robe rode back, looked fairly strong for her thin figure. She was quite pretty. Or at least, the faux-version of herself was. You could never tell with Unspeakables.

'You do not have the proper security clearance to demand my name or rank,' she said smoothly, dropping the parchment. 'However, I would not object to being addressed as Agent Rhyme.'

'Right.' Ron opened the folder and passed it to her. Half the information inside was blacked out with concealing spells, but Ron may or may not have tampered with a few. 'Agent _Rhyme_. Take a look at this.'

She glanced at it briefly, and then flicked her eyes back at him. 'And what of it? In light of Constantine's disappearance, the Minister proclaimed that all other unaccounted-for personnel need be reported to your department. We have complied.'

'And you don't know anything about his whereabouts? Where he was last? What he was working on?'

'Even if I did, I would not be able to disclose the information. By rights, I shouldn't even be speaking to you. But you know this already, so again, Mr Weasley, what is it you want?'

'If you keep reading, it mentions – in as vague detail as possible, of course – some of the projects he's been responsible for in the past decade. One in particular caught my eye. What do you know about scrunts?'

Something shuttered closed in the woman's expression. 'Scrunts? Not much. Mythical beasts, similar to the legends of the Grim.' She shrugged.

'Mythical beasts my _arse_. Despite what reading over my reports has led you to believe, I'm not completely illiterate. Stop playing games. _What do you know?_'

Agent Rhyme met his gaze and folded her arms over the desk, leaning forward. 'Let's say I know something. Why do you care?'

'Because you know as well as I do that Marius Constantine is dead,' Ron said, sitting forward to meet her. 'So is his daughter. And, unlike some folks, I did my research. Marius was pretty high in your ranks before he was promoted to Chief Warlock. He spent a lot of time in the company of his partner, one _Abacus Croaker_. In addition to going missing, Croaker is the only employee on staff aside from _my _partner that is a known Parselmouth. Following me so far?'

'You think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was involved. But so far, any attempts at discovering his whereabouts have been unsuccessful. Agent Croaker was very good at covering his tracks. I doubt even the Dark Lord could find him. You have no proof otherwise, I presume.'

'What you presume is that a two-bit Unspeakable out-smarted _Voldemort_,' Ron hissed, wincing as he used the name. It wasn't easy, but being around Harry so long had worn him down. It had the desired effect on the woman, anyway. She flinched and sat back. 'I think he got to them both. First he got Marius and then, with whatever he learned from him, tracked down his old buddy Croaker.'

'An Unspeakable would never reveal any knowledge, even under duress. We are _sure_ of that.'

'Even if their partner's life depended on it? Their _daughter's_ life?' Ron pressed.

Agent Rhyme did not answer, but didn't look so sure any more.

'Unless any other Unspeakables have gone missing, I'm assuming You-Know-Who found what he was looking for. That's what worries me. And that's why I want to know what you know about _scrunts_.'

The woman pursed her lips and looked him over, as if deliberating. 'Perhaps,' she said, standing, 'we should have a word with the Minister about your security clearance, Mr Weasley.'

: : :

Crossing over the chasm a second time was almost as terrifying as the first, but considering they had (at least) three blood-thirsty serpents on their tail, the journey went a lot more quickly.

Granted, Draco made Harry stop at the edge _just to check_ in case the invisible bridge had magically vanished when they'd woken the basilisks. Harry, impatient but humouring him, stuck a foot over the edge and found that, yes, the barrier was still there. Draco snuck a peek at the swirling galaxy beneath them as they scurried across and was surprised and more than a little bothered to find it was not the same breathtaking image they had seen on the way over; the galaxy was twisting in on itself, planets and stars whirling like an intergalactic cyclone, slowly being sucked into a black nothingness.

Well, that was promising.

They made it to the other side unscathed – Draco, shivering and near-hyperventilating and Harry panting, sweating, his bare chest heaving – but whole. Harry clutched his wand in his right hand, and the twisted remains of his T-shirt in the left. He'd had Draco transfigure it into a sack to hold four teeth he'd ripped out of the dead basilisk's mouth. Apparently, he'd used one to kill a Horcrux before, and since they had yet to find anything else sufficient, it was worth risking their backsides for.

'So, they can't,' Draco said, catching his breath. He waved a hand at the chasm. 'They can't cross that. Right? We're safe. Right?'

Harry sucked in a massive breath, diaphragm expanding, making the muscles in his chest and stomach shift in the blue light of his _Lumos_. 'Um. I hope so?' He licked his lips and leaned back against a pillar, letting out a sigh as the cool stone leeched some of the heat from his body. 'I mean. I think so. They're not stupid but they're not exactly geniuses, either. I don't think they'd even know about the bridge.'

'Right,' Draco said, slumping into the dust and trying to regulate his heartbeat back into a normal rhythm. 'Good. Okay.' Draco wished they'd thought to bring a skin of water; he was parched, and Harry looked pretty thirsty, too. All that hissing probably hadn't helped. He shot another glance at Harry, glad the low light hid the rush of blood to his cheeks. Harry caught him looking, and raised an eyebrow. Draco smirked. 'I hope you don't need to haul any other souvenirs out of here. We're running out of clothes.'

Harry laughed at that, and Draco felt his smirk morph more into a smile. The sound reverberated throughout the cavern, bouncing off pillars and down into the pit.

When the echo of his laugh came back, it was laced with a hiss.

There were three of them; the remaining females, by the size of them, though Draco carefully kept his eyes cast down, focussing on the slide of their bodies along the floor. Harry came up beside him, hand held out; Draco took it, and allowed himself to be pulled silently to his feet.

There was no sense in being quiet, really. With both of their wands lit, the blasted beasts could see them easily. Not that they needed any help finding their prey in the dark.

They seemed to approach the edge of the chasm carefully, more curious than cautious. Draco's hand tightened in Harry's as one of the three slithered right up to the edge, its head bowed and inspecting the never-ending darkness below.

Just as Harry squeezed his hand back, the bravest of the creatures pressed forward.

It didn't fall.

'_Shit_,' Harry hissed.

'Well,' Draco said, taking a deep breath while he still could. 'So much for that. Shall we?'

'They'd just follow us,' Harry said, averting his eyes as the other two basilisks, encouraged by their sister's success, started towards them. 'We need to – there's got to be something – ' Harry started looking around; for what, Draco had no idea. All Draco knew was that every moment they stood here, the serpents were getting closer. 'How far do you reckon it is to the entrance?'

'What?' Draco asked, because his imagination was distracting him with deadly yellow eyes and poisonous teeth. 'Twenty yards, maybe? I don't – '

'You said that the chasm, it's magic-made, so it's unstable. Any type of shift could bring the entire place down?'

'Probably,' Draco said, thrown off panicking by the absurdity of the conversation. 'But we didn't need to – '

As the first basilisk reached ground on their side, it threw back its head and roared.

Harry shoved Draco's head down, shielding it with his own, as he raised his wand to the ceiling and shouted, '_Reducto_!'

: : :

The lobby was all shiny, white-veined marble. Blaise shifted in his new clothing, resisting the urge to shrug off his suit jacket and loosen his tie; how Muggle businessmen ran about all day dressed like this, he had no idea. His shiny shoes clicked against the waxed floor as he strode towards the desk in the centre. There were three people behind the desk, all wearing weird mechanisms on their heads with earpieces and little knobs that hovered in front of their mouths, and they were all arguing in furious whispers.

'Yeah, well,' said one, a woman, blonde and with a face that looked like she was holding in a sneeze, 'I don't know what they want us to do about it, it's not as though they've made it a secret. The media's up in arms – '

'I'm calling Fox now,' said another, this one a man. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, his belly protesting the belt at his waist. 'Just get a handle on it, nobody believes the shit they say nowadays anyway.'

'_Christ_,' said the third. He was younger than the other two. His hair was short and receding despite his age, and a large, steel loop was jutting through his eyebrow. He ripped his headset off and smashed it on the desk. 'I don't know what White told you, but we've got to – '

'Pardon me.'

They paused in their bickering long enough to look him over; the men looked annoyed, but the woman, on seeing his face, stood up a little straighter. Her eyes got that glazed look of someone not-quite-there. 'Mr Zabini,' she said dazedly, 'they're expecting you. I'll take you right up.'

The two men didn't look convinced, but to the left something rang, and the older one cursed and pressed a little button on his earpiece. The youngest watched them go for a second, but shrugged and turned back to his work.

The blonde woman (Maria Thompson, if her name tag was to be believed) led them up to an elegant-looking lift. She placed her thumb on a black pad beside the doors – something green flashed against her finger, and then the doors opened with a _bing_. 'Right this way.'

Blaise felt like they were going very high indeed, but the trip only took about twenty seconds. The doors opened to reveal a cream-coloured hallway with dark wood floors, crowded with people hurrying this way and that. Maria led him down past numerous identical doors before stopping before one seemingly at random, and entered a five-digit code on the number pad above the doorknob.

It was fascinating, Blaise mused, how Muggles got on without magic.

The door opened to reveal an over crowded boardroom. Some people were sitting in chairs surrounding a large oval table, others standing against the wall. Everyone was whispering to someone else. Blaise noticed they were all dressed exactly the same as he was: plainly, but expensively, although some of the occupants had shed their coats. Only two of them appeared to be women. Maria led him deeper inside the crowd, navigating her way to the other side of the table.

At the head sat a man about the same age as Blaise's father. He had a full head of hair, greying from age, and had the thick-set build of a man who was far more fit than he should be for his age. He was also the only man dressed differently; he displayed a full military uniform, with countless stripes, stars and medallions adorning his chest. Maria leaned down and whispered in his ear while gesturing to Blaise; the man nodded and she stood and left without a backward glance.

'All right,' the military man said, standing and quieting the room. 'We all know why we're here. And I want to make it clear that whatever you've been told or whatever you've seen on the news, it's a lot worse.'

The muttering started up again.

'This is nuts,' a man said.

'Are they trying to start a war?' said another.

'Yeah,' agreed blonde young man just behind Blaise, 'that's our job, isn't it?'

Someone snickered, but mostly people just glared at the offending comment. The man smirked and shrugged. Blaise decided he sort of liked that one. He reminded him of Malfoy.

'Look,' said the military man. Blaise supposed he was in charge, or at least was pretending he was. 'China's already up in arms and Russia's ready to back them up. Japan's threatening withdrawal, and the U.K. has yet to take an official stance either way.' The man gave Blaise a pointed look before continuing. 'The rest of Europe is all over the place, and frankly we can't afford to wait around for them to make their minds up. I need contingency plans, people. And I needed them _yesterday_.'

'Well, look, Phil – sorry if this wasn't obvious – but we don't have any contingency plans for covering up blatant acts of war. It'd be different if this was thirty years ago, but with the internet these days, half the world's already seen the amateur footage the Chinese are posting up on those new social networking sites that keep cropping up on the Web. People are _dead_ – there's blood in the streets, and there's a crater where Hong Kong used to be with stars and stripes on the shrapnel.'

A ringing silence followed her words and, while he didn't understand half of what she just said, Blaise understood enough to realise that the Order's problems had just got a whole hell of a lot worse.

'Military training exercise gone wrong?' the Muggle-Malfoy suggested hopefully when the silence continued.

'Yeah, right, with live atomic warheads,' another said scathingly. 'We do it all the time.'

'We could pass the blame along,' Blaise suggested.

The entire room stopped and stared at him. He smirked at them. 'The Prime Minister sends his condolences, and wishes to offer any assistance he can.'

'And his suggestion is lying?' It was the same woman again, the one who had silenced the room to begin with.

Blaise met her gaze. '_Is_ it a lie? You deny any knowledge of the incident, I assume, so unless you _do _know something, you're just as much the victim here. You need to cover your own – ' Blaise adjusted his lingo, just barely, ' – ass. Unless you're suggesting America tells China that, somehow, someone in _your own military_ managed to arm and fire off a weapon of mass destruction into one of their major cities while you're simultaneously waging war with Afghanistan?'

The Muggle woman blinked, looked back at Phil while jerking her thumb at Blaise and said, 'Who the hell is this asshole?'

'Who cares, I like how he thinks,' the blonde behind him said. 'I'm with the Brit. Pass it along.'

The woman looked like she was going to scream. '_How_?'

'And to _whom_?' someone else asked.

'Oh, I don't know. Who do we hate this week? Siberia?'

'It's Tuesday,' Blaise supplied. 'Wednesday is Siberia.'

'Right, sorry,' said the blonde man, flashing him a grateful smirk. 'Look, it's just an idea. It wouldn't be the first time some idiot's gone and dug up a bomb we forgot in the desert.'

The man named Phil seemed to be considering this. 'How old was the warhead?'

The blonde shrugged.

'Somebody find out,' the older man ordered. '_Quickly_. And bring us some damn coffee. Nobody is going anywhere until we've got a press-release ready to go live.'

Blaise found himself a seat beside the Muggle who reminded him of Malfoy and sighed; it was going to be a long night.

: : :

Harry couldn't breathe.

The dust hung around them like a fog. He tried to suck in a breath and immediately coughed, hacking lungfuls of dirt out of his mouth. His left ankle was on fire and his ears were ringing; beside him, Draco tried to move and groaned.

'Merlin's _tits_,' he moaned, pale hair grey with the dust. 'You truly have the worst ideas, Potter.'

'Shut up,' Harry said automatically, between coughs. 'We're alive.'

'Speak for yourself.'

'I think,' Harry said, pushing his chest off the ground. His arms were shaking, but holding his weight. 'I think it worked.'

'Good, because my legs don't.'

Harry glanced back at Draco's prone figure. His glasses were too smudged and cracked to see anything; he quickly cleaned and repaired them with his wand and blinked in the sudden light. Draco's lower legs were lodged under a thin but heavy-looking piece of dislodged stone. Very carefully, Harry levitated it off. 'Better?'

Draco winced as the blood rushed back into his calves. 'No,' he hissed. 'But I can feel pain all the way down, so I suppose it could've been worse.'

Nodding, Harry worked on dragging himself to his feet. His ankle screamed in protest. Pulling up the leg of his jeans, he could already see it starting to swell. Harry was pretty good at basic medi-magic, but had never been particularly talented at mending bones. Maybe Bill could take a look.

'Come on,' Harry urged, leaning down and prodding Draco's unmoving figure with his wand. 'Bill sent a Patronus while we were separated. It's already sun-rise. That leopard's likely to be back any minute now.'

'Nundu,' Draco corrected weakly from the floor. 'A leopard we could manage. Also, you're insane. Has anyone ever told you that? I have no idea how we're still alive.'

'Honestly, neither do I. Come _on_, get up. I can't – I think I broke my ankle, I can't drag you out.'

'_Insane_,' Draco repeated, shakily getting to his feet.

Draco stumbled a little upright, like his legs were still numb. He looked up and shielded his eyes; the light was coming from the entrance, about twenty feet above them. The ground sloped up to meet it, but it'd still be a long climb with only one good foot. Draco looked around, selected a chunk of rock and transfigured it into a lengthy piece of rope. He directed the rope up, and lodged it on something outside.

Harry let him go first – if he stumbled, there'd be no use in dragging them both back down, and this way he could set his own pace. Halfway up, Draco slipped and slid down a few feet, wincing at the burn on his hand, but redoubled his grip and kept going. Harry took it slower, hopping from one foothold to the next, doing his best to keep his right ankle poised in mid-air.

After the darkness of the cavern, the morning sun was beautiful and blinding. Harry collapsed on his side right outside the hole, next to where Draco was literally trying to hug the ground.

'I am never, ever coming to this stupid country again,' Draco proclaimed, and rolled onto his back beside him.

Harry chuckled and silently agreed. Not that it wasn't spectacular in a wild sort of way, but he severely missed the comforts of home. Like his bed. And his shower.

They were both still caked in dust; Draco looked ridiculous. The dust seemed to have accumulated over the scar on his chest, making it that much more obvious, and Harry winced. It was hard to look at it and realise _he'd_ put it there.

Draco saw him looking and sat up, putting his back to Harry's gaze. A dark circle, about the same size as the bottom of a glass, stood out between his shoulder blades. It was hard to tell with all the dust, but it looked like a tattoo.

'What is that?'

'What is wh – '

Deep in the darkness of the tunnel they'd stumbled out of, something hissed.

Both of them were on their feet and out of the hollowed tree before the reality of Harry's broken ankle brought him crashing back to earth. Harry winced as his head cracked against a root, and he nearly skewered himself on the sword slung through his belt. Something thudded to the ground on his side, and Harry's hand immediately shot to the cup... which was still hanging heavy at his side. Flooded with mild relief, Harry started to climb to his feet.

Draco skidded to a halt and looked back. He seemed to come to a decision, and rushed back before leaning down and, with one great heave, hoisted Harry onto his back.

'Ow! What are – '

'Shut _up_, Potter!' Draco snapped, and began to change.

Harry had always averted his eyes when Draco shifted into his Animagus form because, frankly, it was painful to watch. Being on Draco's naked back while he changed was worse. At first, Draco just became _larger_ – obscenely so – and then his bones began to shift, and Harry could feel every vertebra pop as his spine elongated and moved into place. He clung desperately to Draco's expanding torso as his skin melted away into a coarse, white fur. Draco's hair followed the line of his neck as it lengthened, and Harry grabbed hold and twisted himself up into a sitting position just as Draco landed on all fours.

It was all over in a matter of seconds, and left Harry feeling a little dizzy.

As soon as Draco seemed sure Harry had a grip, he took off, lunging straight from a standstill into a full gallop. Harry hunkered down, bringing himself into the horse's slipstream, his ankle screaming in pain, and squinted as he looked hurriedly around for Bill. Had he already left? Harry hoped so, because he hadn't had a chance to send him a message back. The last thing anyone wanted was to come across a basilisk without warning.

He didn't have to wonder long – they'd barely reached the trees when they heard Bill shouting, but Harry couldn't make out the words over the thundering of the horse's hooves. They shot right past him, into a thicket and around a tree entangled with vines –

Yellow spotted with black obscured their escape route. Its mouth was, thankfully, closed, and the dappled sunlight struggling through the canopy did nothing to diminish its size. It looked like – well, a giant leopard, about the size of the Knight Bus, and it had stopped mid-step, seeming perplexed at their sudden appearance.

Draco jerked to a halt and reared, nearly throwing Harry, who clung to his neck for dear life while sharp hooves flashed at the air.

The nundu pulled back its lips, exposing glistening yellow teeth the size of swords, and roared.

: : :

Hermione took a deep breath before stepping into Auror Headquarters. The room was abuzz with activity as it always was these days, but the particular cubicle she sought out was suspiciously empty.

She signed and detoured down another corridor, popping her head hopefully into an office at the end of the hall. 'Do you have a moment?'

Kingsley looked up from the report he was working on and waved her in. Arthur must have been out. 'Hermione, hi. How is...' he trailed off and settled on '… everyone?'

'Fine, fine,' she said dismissively. 'Have you seen Ron?'

'He was in here a few hours ago. Robards gave him the Unspeakable file.'

Hermione blinked. 'You got an Unspeakable file?' That would certainly explain why Ron had gone pelting off to level nine that morning.

'Yes. It was very strange.' Kingsley shrugged. 'Apparently one of them's gone missing. More missing than usual, anyway. Weasley took off not long after. Didn't say where. Is everything okay?'

'Fine,' Hermione said again, heading for the door. Kingsley was giving her a look that said all too clearly he thought she was full of it, but didn't push it. 'If you see him again, tell him I need to talk to him, okay?'

An Unspeakable was missing? Even if they'd passed the information along to MLE, it wasn't likely to contain anything of use. What was Ron up to, she wondered as she headed towards the lifts, that would keep him from mentioning it to her before he ran off? Unless he assumed she was still recovering.

The doors of the lift opened. Ron rushed out and nearly bowled her over.

'Hermione?' he said, catching her and babbling. 'What are you doing out of bed? Y'know what, it doesn't matter. Look, we – '

'Ow,' Hermione said, using him to steady herself. 'Ron, listen, we need to – '

' – need to talk. What?'

'What?'

'Listen,' he said, dragging her aside as people trying to get into the lift shot them questioning looks. 'What clearance level does MID give you?'

'What?' she said again. 'Ron, please, there's something I have to tell you – '

'The Minister just upped my security clearance to grade six,' Ron said over her.

She gaped at him. She was only grade four, and that was a step above most Aurors. 'Grade _six_? That's – that's – '

'Scary, I know.' He handed her a file. 'But not nearly as scary as what I found.'

: : :

The horse, for once, didn't want to run. This close, the predator would have the advantage if it turned and fled. At that size, one leap would bring the beast down on its back. The stallion mind knew, from millions of years of instinct, that it stood its best chance by holding its ground and looking as threatening as possible – rearing, neighing, kicking and biting; showing the predator it did not intend to go down without a fight.

The horse was woefully misinformed – even in the weird, monochromatic sight of the horse, Draco could see the toxic breath headed their way. This cat didn't have to bite them to kill them.

He started to turn around – and immediately thanked the gods that horses had a three-hundred-and-fifty degree visual field. He spotted the scales before eye-contact could be made, and reared again just in case Harry had the bad idea to turn around.

The horse leapt sideways just as the basilisk struck, which was a bad idea – the nundu, bewildered by all the excitement, took it as a challenge and roared again. Apparently, the giant leopard was immune to the deadly gaze of the serpent. All the better.

Bill was back in the clearing by the baobab tree, eyes closed and back flat against the bark. Draco whinnied when they were close. Bill cautiously opened an eye and sighed heavily when he saw them.

'Did you see – there was a – '

'Yeah,' Harry said from Draco's back. There was a shriek from the jungle behind them; who was winning, Draco couldn't tell, and honestly didn't care. Harry dismounted, wincing and using Draco's back to hold himself up. 'Long story. Are you any good at mending bones?'

'What? Harry, there's a sodding _basilisk_ battling a _nundu_ – '

Draco swung his head back around and noticed Bill had his camera in his hands. Harry seemed to see it, too. 'Seriously? You want to take _pictures?_'

Bill opened his mouth, looked mournfully off into the forest and sighed in defeat. 'Sorry, you're right. I just – how did you break your leg?'

'Ankle,' Harry corrected. 'That's why I was – I couldn't run, so Malfoy – '

The nundu roared again, closer this time, and there were sounds that suggested a herd of erumpents were crashing through the trees towards them.

'I think maybe it can wait,' Bill said, standing and eying the trees. 'Malfoy, do you think you can carry us both?'

Draco snorted and stamped a hoof. As long as it involved leaving _right now_, he could suffer the indignity of having both Harry Potter _and_ a Weasley on his back.

Bill mounted first; he was heavier than Harry, and when he pulled Harry up behind him, Draco winced inwardly. It was harder to run with two independent weights on his back, but he managed to maintain a quick canter. He'd got about fifty metres into the tree line when Harry cursed and Bill shouted 'What is it?'

'The teeth! I lost the fucking _fangs_!'

'What?'

'Dammit! _Stop_!'

Draco skidded to a halt and Harry half dismounted, half fell off. He stumbled to his feet, hissing in pain and hobbling, and started back the way they'd come.

Bill yanked the hand in Draco's mane and the horse wheeled around automatically. Draco resisted the urge to buck him off. 'Harry, what are you talking about? Why are you – '

He cut off as Draco popped back into himself, leaving Bill on his arse on the ground and wincing. Draco caught Harry by the arm and spun him around; Harry stumbled on his bad leg, catching himself on Draco's shoulder. 'The _hell_, Malfoy!'

'Are you mental? Are you fucking retarded?' Draco snapped. 'No, you shut up, you complete idiot. Do you have any idea how – we get attacked by a lion, Granger nearly gets killed for wandering too close to the wrong daisy, then we almost _kill each other_ from a curse, stumbled into _seven_ fucking basilisks, almost get crushed by a cave-in – lovely idea, by the way – and then almost get eaten by a giant fucking cat. So, you know what, since no one else seems to have the sense to, I'm telling you _no_, Potter. _No_. You are _not_ marching back into that fucking nightmare to tempt fate one more fucking time and I swear I will beat you within an inch of your life if you try.'

Harry starred at him, his breathing laboured and obviously in pain. 'I have to,' he said eventually, closing his eyes briefly. 'We _need them_. Where the hell else are we going to find – I didn't think of it before, the one in the Manor, and it's been dead too long, the fangs'll be useless, I have to – '

'What the hell is going on?'

Bill was watching them both, clearly not following the conversation but thinking along the same lines as Draco. Harry looked back at Draco, pleading with his eyes – and it suddenly hit Draco that the Weasley had no idea why they were even here, what they were doing, just that it was important to Harry. If Draco told him to Stun Harry and drag him out of the reserve so they could teleport out, he probably wouldn't hesitate.

But Harry was right: what was the point of all this, if they couldn't even destroy the damn things?

'Weasley, can you carry him?'

'Why would I need to – '

'We forgot something. Something _important_,' Draco said, before Bill could ask what and make Draco lie to him. 'Just get him out of here. I'll meet you at the border.'

'Draco – ' Harry began.

Draco didn't wait for him to finish. He turned back into the jungle and ran, hitting the ground with hooves.

: : :

Cold fingers drummed the soft leather arm of the chair. The few Death Eaters admitted to his presence – Dolohov, Avery, the Lestranges and the Notts – stood stock-still, nobody wanting to be the tempting first target. Voldemort was growing impatient, and this never boded well for anyone unfortunate enough to be in the same room with him.

Actually, the youngest Nott looked quite at ease, but that was because Severus had learned the hard way that he seemed quite unbothered by physical pain. It was a good quality to have in the service of the Dark Lord; though Voldemort had found other ways to punish him, and as far as Snape was concerned, it needed to happen as often as possible. It was the only way Theodore's playthings got any relief at all.

'It's been nearly a week,' the young image of Tom Riddle said, his voice soft and laced with warning. 'I was led to believe that the boy would be here by now.'

Dark eyes found their first victim; Avery trembled under the gaze. 'M'lord, I assure you, any day now – '

'I feel I have been exceptionally patient so far,' the Dark Lord continued over him, eyes seeking out other weak points. He focussed on Dolohov, who was sweating magnificently. 'Perhaps the assurances our friends supplied were wrong.'

'My lord,' Dolohov began, voice a little surer than he looked. 'The beasts are... not without limits. If the boy were close by, they would have surely... perhaps he has travelled, and they are following the trail.'

'These are not corporeal creatures.' The dark eyes narrowed, but lost their focus. 'If the boy had travelled anywhere, I was assured they would follow seamlessly. Very few spells work on them; wards and walls alike do not stand between them and their prey. This is what you told me, not five days past.'

'Yes, my lord.'

'_Then what is taking so long?_'

'I – ' Dolohov looked to Avery for assistance; Avery kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, ignoring him. 'My lord, I am sure – '

'Enough!'

Dolohov went down hard and screaming under the non-verbal Cruciatus curse. The tall figure of Tom Riddle surged out of his chair, dark eyes wild with fury and impatience. The Dark Lord had spent twenty long years waiting; he expected instant gratification from his followers, no matter how unreasonable their tasks may have been.

'The boy's mother,' he said, turning on Bellatrix, who raised her chin smugly – she had, time and time again, failed Voldemort as often as the rest. However, she was providing another service entirely that none of them could compete with. 'She remains with Yaxley?'

'Yes, my lord,' Bellatrix said silkily. 'He guards her rather... jealously.'

'Bring her to me.' He turned to leave, but paused, stopping pointedly at Theodore, who at least had the grace to avert his eyes lest his lord see the eagerness there. '_Un_molested, Nott. I trust that seven of you will be sufficient enough to deliver the witch alive.'

There was a chorus of 'Yes, m'lord' from heads bent in submission. The Dark Lord did not need to express exactly what would happen if Narcissa came to any sort of harm before she was presented to him; she was far too valuable, the one angle he had on getting what he wanted from Draco.

They would not leave until nightfall. Severus waited as long as he dared before venturing out into the setting sun, the cold Russian snowfall camouflaging the spell as he cast it. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, because he had talked at length with Narcissa of this eventuality – the woman was proud and stubborn and more than able to defend herself, and the love for her only child was blinding. He had no doubt that she would do what she had to.

He also had no doubt of exactly what it would do to Draco.

: : :

_but if I was fearless_  
_could I be your reckless friend_  
_if I was helpless_  
_could you be the one who comes rushing in_

: : :

Harry fought with everything he had which, with the pain in his ankle, wasn't much. Bill eventually stopped trying to drag him, turned around and shoved his shoulder into Harry's midsection and hoisted him over his shoulder. He staggered a bit under the weight, but kept pushing forward until Harry stopped shouting.

When the trees finally began to clear, Bill said, 'Are you done?'

Harry glowered at the ground from Bill's shoulder and said nothing.

Bill stumbled to the top of the incline he was climbing, bringing them to the edge of a clearing. It obviously wasn't where they had entered the reserve and, from the heavy feel of the atmosphere, they weren't out quite yet.

Bill slowly lowered Harry down, careful not to put any weight on his injured ankle. Draco had taken them more than halfway to the border before he'd turned back, so they couldn't have too long to go. Sitting down at the top of the slope and massaging his stomach, Harry grudgingly accepted the water skin Bill offered him.

'Not far, now,' Bill said, taking a seat beside him. Then, at the look on Harry's face, said: 'I'm sorry.'

'I should have gone with him.'

'Harry, you're injured,' Bill said reasonably. Harry hated him a little bit for it. 'And anyway, he'll be faster on his own. You don't weigh that much, but he'll be a lot more agile without worrying if you're going to fall off or not.'

'It should be me in there,' Harry bit out, pulling up his trouser leg and hissing between his teeth at the swollen red-and-purple flesh around his ankle. 'He's going to get himself _killed_.'

Bill laughed and Harry glared at him. 'Sorry,' Bill said again. 'It's just, you know, you do the same thing to us _all the time_.'

'It's my _job_. Malfoy's a civilian.'

'Oh, please,' Bill said, rolling his eyes. 'You do remember who his father was, don't you?'

'He's not his father.'

'No,' Bill admitted, 'but he's his father's son. And if you'd ever seen Narcissa in a bad mood, you'd know he's got to have something stashed up his sleeve.'

'He's going to do something crazy.'

'Crazier than tracking across Ethiopia on foot, diving into a nundu's den, and starting a fight with a basilisk?'

Harry sighed and put his head in his hands, not bothering to mention that they had started a fight with, in fact, _seven_ basilisks. 'He should be back by now. What the hell is taking so long?'

'Maybe he's being careful.'

'Maybe he's being _eaten_.'

When Bill didn't reply, Harry looked up and saw Bill giving him an odd look. 'He saved Hermione's life,' Harry felt obligated to point out. 'And he actually helped a lot down there, I wouldn't have been able to do it on my own, I just – it's confusing, all right? I mean, he's still a fucking shithead half the time and I want to punch him more often than not, but at the same time – '

'Harry – '

' – he said he's sorry, y'know, for all the stupid crap he did, and – well, I'm starting to believe he really does regret it, he's not – '

'Harry! _Listen_.'

Harry shut up and listened. The distant roaring had stopped about ten minutes ago, and the normal noises of the jungle had resumed. But now, it was faint, but...

Harry lurched to his feet, swaying as he put weight on his bad ankle. Bill was with him immediately, hands locked around his upper arms before he could go running off to see what the noise was. He struggled half-heartedly, straining to hear.

The white horse came crashing out of the foliage beneath them a moment later, a dusty parcel clutched between its teeth. It stumbled sideways, legs getting tangled together, tripping over itself as it lunged forward, heaving. Bill's grip was still tight on his arms; Harry wrenched himself free and pelted towards it, tripping down the dusty slope.

Pain flooded up his right leg like fire, but Harry ignored it and stumbled forward. 'Malfoy?'

The horse wavered again, eyes rolling, and Harry could see its features begin to melt even as he half-ran, half-hopped towards it. Draco lost the battle against gravity and fell, just as Harry slid to a halt and caught him going down.

Draco was sickly pale and shivering; his skin was hot to the touch. His eyes were closed and heavily shadowed, and there was something at the corner of his mouth that looked suspiciously like blood. Harry was vaguely aware of Bill coming up behind him, wand drawn. Before Harry could protest, he cast Bubble-Head charms around them both, and at once Harry understood. _Their breath carries disease and death..._

Bill was already moving Draco out of his arms, lying him down on ferns populating the edge of the jungle. Draco coughed violently as his back touched the ground. Bright, red droplets sprayed the bubbles protecting their faces. Draco collapsed back on the ground, mouth open and panting, slick with blood. He still clutched his wand in his left hand.

Seeing the wand triggered a memory, a tiny detail that otherwise may have gone overlooked. Harry reached over and tugged Hermione's bag from Bill's backpack. He started digging around inside until he found the travel-sized cauldron, hauled it out and conjured a fire underneath it.

'Harry, what – '

'Hermione made these,' Harry said, reaching into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out the bottles. He dropped them on the ground and shuffled through them, grabbing the first one he saw that said _Antidote_. 'Here, can you keep the fire going? I need to – '

'Harry, it's not going to work,' Bill said desperately. 'We'll just – look, we'll get him to St Mungo's, maybe they've got something – '

'There isn't any time!' Harry snarled. Bill took one look at his eyes and stopped arguing; Harry didn't care. Hermione had already done most of the work; Harry emptied the vial into the cauldron and Bill jabbed the fire with his wand, Engorging it. The serum almost immediately started to boil.

Harry reached for Draco's wrist but Bill halted him, shaking his head, and ripped a length of fabric off his vest; he placed it over the skin before Harry touched it. Careful not to make contact with his skin and gripping his own wand in his teeth, Harry pulled the white wand out of Draco's hand.

The wand came easily. Draco's hand flopped limply back to the ground.

Holding Draco's wand at either end, Harry turned his face away and snapped it over his knee.

Red sparks erupted from the break, burning his fingers so badly that Harry nearly dropped it.

It seemed an age ago that they were all sitting around the long oak table in the Room of Requirement, Marius asking Draco what the core of his wand was. If Marius hadn't insisted on that spell, if Harry hadn't been paying attention...

Harry waited until the sparks faded, grasped the dark-blonde whisker that served as the wand's core, and dropped it into the cauldron.

It felt like hours, waiting for the potion to mature. Slowly, the simmering, water-like substance became opaque and eventually a pale purple. Bill raised his eyebrows but kept his comments to himself. Harry didn't wait for it to cool, just cast a weak freezing charm at the hot liquid, before seizing the cauldron in both hands. Using the fabric already torn, Bill lifted Draco's head up just enough for him to swallow the potion down. Ignoring Bill's noise of protest, Harry used his hands to close Draco's mouth and squeeze his nose shut. _Swallow_, _damn you. Please._

Finally, Draco swallowed – weakly – and then lay still. Harry had no idea how long he sat there, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg and holding Draco's face, just waiting. It seemed like an eternity.

Draco coughed suddenly, sputtering; he shoved them both away and rolled over before being violently sick into the shrubbery.

Relief flooded through Harry, removing the weight from his shoulders, and he sat back, but then cried out, having sat right on top of his broken ankle. When the spots of pain left his vision, he could see his foot was twisted at an unnatural angle. Taking a few deep breaths, he carefully eased himself sideways, moving his leg as little as possible.

Draco was still heaving, coughing wetly onto the ground. Bill slapped him on the back a few times, then conjured a glass and filled it with his water skin before offering it to Draco who, after a final dry heave, accepted it and drank it down in one long swallow.

'Fuck me,' he said, dropping the glass.

Harry enjoyed a heavy repose as Draco struggled into a sitting position. The urge to belt him around the head was ebbing, slowly being replaced with the absurd idea of kissing him, just to make sure he was real.

'What the hell were you thinking?'

Draco coughed a few more times, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before answering: 'Spending too much time around you, I think.'

Bill laughed at that, ignoring Harry's dark look. 'Welcome to the Gryffindor club, Malfoy.'

'If you insult me again, Weasley, I'll be sick on you next.'

Harry was too relieved – and in too much pain – to be properly angry at Draco. 'I think he means that it's more my trademark to go running headfirst towards things that'll get you killed,' Harry told him. 'You idiot.'

'Yes, well. Your insanity is contagious, apparently.' Draco wheezed a bit; Bill offered him another glass of water, which he accepted and drank gratefully, adding: 'May as well live like we're dying, eh?'

'Well, technically,' Harry said, 'we're all dying.'

'Some of us more quickly than others,' Draco remarked. His eyes found Harry, then the broken wand between them. Harry opened his mouth to apologise, but Draco cut him off by laughing.

Bill raised his eyebrows but Harry said nothing, not sure if he should smile or not. Draco kept laughing, shaking his head, and all Harry could think about was the pale, sickly figure that had lain there, coughing up blood and dying.

'Oh, Merlin,' Draco said, now hiccuping from laughter. 'Can we go home, now? As – _hic_ – exciting as this little adventure has been, my kingdom for a bloody hot shower.'

Harry did smile then, closing his eyes and echoing the laughter. 'Yeah, let's go home.'

: : :

Being a Cursebreaker wasn't an easy job, but it had its perks. One of which was an emergency Portkey right into the lobby of St Mungo's. Bill pulled it out of his pack the moment they stumbled over the boundary of the reserve.

Bill had wanted them to stay, to get checked out, but he'd done a decent job on Harry's ankle and Draco insisted that, if they really needed medical attention, he'd rather have his own private Healer attend to them. Harry silently agreed. As an Auror, whenever an injury was treated at St Mungo's, a copy of the report would be sent back to the Ministry. The last thing he needed was Robards and Scrimgeour breathing down his neck.

'If you're sure,' Bill said, warily watching them go. He met Harry's gaze and said, 'I'll send an owl to Ron, let him know you made it back in one piece.'

'Mostly,' said Harry, who was honestly not sure if he had the energy to Apparate home on his own, much less shower before collapsing and sleeping for a week. 'And Bill – thanks for your help.'

'Any time, Harry. Be careful.'

As it turned out, Harry really didn't have the energy. But apparently that antidote had done its job well, and Harry latched on to Draco as he took them, not to Harry's flat, but outside the black gates of the Manor.

The walk up the gravel drive seemed to go on for years. They could have just gone back to Harry's flat, he supposed, but the idea of sleeping on a featherbed and having a bath in a tub with sixteen different taps sounded pretty fucking amazing right then. Besides, Draco wanted to check on the horses – with both him and his mother gone, simple chores like feeding and cleaning would be left to the house-elves, but Draco insisted that the horses were much like dogs in the way that they'd begin to pine if left alone too long.

He mentioned that he didn't mind if the stupid cat had got itself stepped on by a wayward hoof, though.

Harry grinned despite himself. He was still limping, but able to put some weight on his injured ankle at least. Anyway, there were a few things he had to take care of before bathing or sleeping, and one of them was tied to his waist.

The other was waiting inside, hidden away.

Draco gave him an odd look as Harry shook his head when Draco offered to have Nivens show him to a room with a bath, but shrugged and headed upstairs, leaving muddy footprints in his wake. 'If you need anything,' Draco said as he disappeared upstairs, 'he'll see to it.'

Harry turned instead down the west wing. The ballroom was huge and dark and eerily silent – it reminded him of the cavern, save for the pillars and the dust – and unhooked the cup from his belt. He set it down on the floor in the middle of the open room and knelt down in front of it, already feeling better now that it was off his person.

He pulled the other bag out of Hermione's and carefully reached inside. Four teeth, four Horcruxes. Well, it was something. He didn't know how long the basilisk's venom would be good for, but he did not intend to find out. Gripping the largest of the teeth in two hands, Harry raised it over the cup –

The doors of the ballroom slammed open. Powerful winds surged through the room, carrying the sounds of screams through the open doors. The candles along the wall surged ablaze, scorching the walls. The ground beneath him begin to shake, making the golden chalice shudder, and inside the cup Harry could see glowing red eyes –

He brought the tooth down as hard as he could, gritting his teeth and bracing for the impact as the fang pierced the gold. An earth-shattering scream filled the air, wailing around the room in an auricular cyclone before converging over the broken cup and swirling away into silence. The doors slammed shut again, making the candles flicker

Harry sat back, panting, completely drained but only half done. It could probably wait until after he'd bathed, but he really didn't want to push his luck _that_ much.

Nivens appeared with a small _snap_. 'Master says he is curious as to why his house is wailing, good sir,' the house-elf said nervously.

Harry blinked, having totally forgotten that Malfoy's room was almost directly upstairs. 'Uh, sorry,' he said. 'Actually – wait. Could you bring me the locket? The one Draco showed me before?'

'Master said to provide you with whatever you required,' the elf quipped, and disappeared with another quick _crack_.

Harry drummed his fingers on his thighs as he waited. After a few minutes, he sat back and massaged his ankle – Bill had been able to set the bones before they took the Portkey back, but the flesh was still slightly swollen and tender to the touch. Growing impatient as the minutes wore on, Harry had just started to climb to his feet when the door to the ballroom opened again. He looked up and saw Draco standing there, still filthy from dust but wearing a thick, comfortable-looking dressing gown.

As Draco got closer, Harry could see the velvet box in his hands. He sat across from Harry, eying the broken cup, and carefully laid the box beside it.

'You could've mentioned you were planning on doing this now.'

'I didn't want to wait.'

'I've gathered,' Draco said, eyes darting to Harry's bare chest. Harry was suddenly very aware that he still hadn't redressed. 'I really don't fancy trying to have a bath while my house is screaming, so,' Draco jerked his head towards the box, 'let's get it over with, shall we?'

Harry opened the box carefully and there it lay, glinting harmlessly in the candlelight. He reached into the bag and pulled out another fang.

He stopped when Draco reached out to touch his wrist. Slowly, careful not to touch the poison seeping out of the tip, Draco took the fang from his hands and pulled the box towards him.

'It's not – ' Harry started, and faltered, unable to explain in words how it wasn't that easy. Killing these things was like casting a Killing Curse – it was _murder_. You had to mean it, or the Horcrux would survive. 'You don't have to,' he said.

'I want to,' Draco said, eyes hardened. 'I need to do this.'

'It wants to live. You have to mean it. You have to want to kill it – to kill _him_.'

Draco laughed a little ruefully. 'Oh, trust me, Potter. You have no idea.'

Using the black cloth, Draco carefully thumbed the locket open. Whatever he could see inside, Harry couldn't tell, but there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes, a waver of intent... 'Draco – '

Gripping the tooth in both hands, Draco brought the point down in one sure, savage blow.

The noise was horrific. Black smoke poured out of the locket, taking the shape of monstrous faces that gurgled and vomited more smoke, billowing until they filled the room. Electricity shot around the cloud in lightning-like strikes, making Harry's hair stand on end.

When the smoke had cleared and the wailing had ceased, Draco picked up the locket with trembling hands and gave it an experiment twirl. He looked at Harry. 'So that's it.'

'For those,' Harry said. 'There's still three more. That I know of.'

'And we can assume they're all as well-guarded?'

'Probably.'

'Fabulous.' Draco stood up – a little shakily, Harry noticed – and dusted off his hands. He dropped the locket to the floor like it was rubbish. 'Right, well, before we go running off to get ourselves dismembered again, I'm going to have a wash.'

'Yeah,' Harry said, standing. 'Also, I'm kind of starving.'

'I think I'm too tired to eat, but I see your point.' Draco was looking him over again and Harry resisted the urge to fidget – which was stupid, really, because Harry wasn't shy. 'Nivens'll figure something out and bring it to you.'

He watched Draco turn to go, then realised he didn't exactly know where to find a bathroom. 'Uh, Malfoy – '

'We have seventeen bedrooms equipped with full baths,' Draco said without turning around and waving a disinterested hand. 'Pick one.'

: : :

Hermione put the file aside and stared at Ron. 'This can't be right.'

They had taken the files back to her place. Ron assured her his new security level allowed that sort of thing – not that would have mattered, mind you, but it did make Hermione feel marginally better about taking Top Secret Unspeakable research outside of Ministry grounds. She was curled up on the couch, untouched tea on the coffee table before her. Ron was pacing, a small glass of Firewhisky in his hands. He seemed to have forgotten about it.

'Yeah, s'what I thought. Keep reading.'

Hermione did, and it still didn't make any sense.

Growing up a Muggle, she had heard all sorts of fairytales. The first thing she had done upon getting her Hogwarts letter was hassle her parents into buying half the books in Flourish & Blotts and spent the rest of the summer learning that most of them were true.

Of course, Muggles had got some fundamental things wrong. Vampires weren't allergic to silver (though werewolves were), dragons did not make a habit of eating virgins chained to rocks, and unicorns were not fluffy, peaceful creatures that would just stand there and allow some moron with a sword to lop their horns off. Most of what she discovered had comforted her (she had thought most of the main characters in fairytales were complete idiots to begin with, now she had _proof_), but there always seemed to be some truth to the Muggle stories in every culture.

'I don't understand,' she said finally. 'I mean, okay, wargs, I get – '

'Big, nasty demon dogs,' Ron supplied helpfully.

' – and naga are an old Indian myth, but from what I understood they're a completely different species. I mean, magical elements aside, one's a mammal and one's a reptile. How can they interbreed?'

Ron stopped pacing long enough to give her a look. 'That would be the _magical_ element.'

'_Still_,' she persisted, 'it doesn't make any – just because magic's involved doesn't mean common sense gets tossed out the window – '

'Common sense? Hermione, you breed a basilisk by hatching a chicken egg under a _toad_. What part of that makes _any bloody sense?_'

He did have a point, there. Still, it seemed rather far-fetched. Which was probably why after hunting the species to near-extinction, the Ministry had kept a few for 'research reasons'.

As a scientist, she could understand that. As a person with any sort of _common sense_, she thought they were idiots. Keeping something this dangerous locked away in a vault! If anyone really wanted to get their hands on them, they'd find a way.

Voldemort had.

From what Ron had been able to gather, Abacus Croaker had been the Head of Research and Development and, as the only registered Parselmouth on Ministry staff (aside from Harry), had been in charge of the beasts. It wasn't much to go on, but even with Ron's security clearance raised so high, the Unspeakables hadn't been exactly forth coming. Marius, before he had been promoted to Chief Warlock, had been Croaker's partner for fourteen years. He knew Croaker's habits, knew how to read his code, knew where to find him when he didn't want to be found. Voldemort had got to Marius, and then got to Croaker, which had led him to the scrunts.

From what little they'd been able to learn, the Unspeakables labeled them as a serpentine creature that appeared in the form of a massive lupine. There was actually no proof that they had been a cross-breed of naga (though the warg ancestry was certain, it seemed), but it was their best guess when taking into account the snake-like features and communication coupled with human-like intelligence.

Primarily they were lone hunters, and extremely good ones. Once they'd caught scent of their prey they could follow it to the ends of the earth and, some speculated, even into other realms if necessary. They had their limitations, like most magical creatures (aside from dragons, perhaps), primarily that they could only hunt in darkness. For lack of a better explanation, they simply didn't _exist_ in outside of shadows. When the sun rose over the horizon or someone shone a light directly at them, they would simply fade away, sinking into the background. And as soon as the darkness returned, they would be back on the hunt.

It wasn't much of a limitation, though, considering their half-corporeal existence made them pretty much immune to any sort of ward and allowed them to travel anywhere they needed to go.

Tireless, ruthless, utterly immoral (demon traits inherited from the warg), they only hunted down the damned – probably where the Grim legends came from, an Unspeakable noted, and Hermione thought that was a good assumption – and fed on their souls after ripping the mortal bodies to pieces. They would lie flat on the ground, the fur on their backs mimicking whatever surface they were stalking you on. After stalking their prey they would... _unfurl_, and attack.

Just reading about it gave Hermione goosebumps.

It was only a matter of time before a Parselmouth realised they could communicate with them. After that, it was only a matter of time before the Parselmouth learned spells to bind them – _control them_ – and people had started using them for their own selfish purposes. Stupid, thought Hermione. Putting a leash on dark creatures like that was only asking for trouble. Dementors were a prime example.

Most of that had occurred hundreds of years ago, before the Ministry and before regulations, and eventually Unspeakables had rounded the creatures up and had them destroyed.

Except for three. For _research reasons_. And now Voldemort had got his hands on them.

Hermione took a long breath and closed the file. Very calmly, she said, 'We've got to find Harry.'

'Yeah,' Ron said. 'No _shit_.'

They Disapparated just as a small owl fluttered to the window, a small message tucked into its satchel. The owl peered hopefully inside and hooted a bit dolefully before turning around and spreading its wings once again.

: : :

Harry slipped into the steaming water and hissed at the sting, but submerged himself despite the heat. It was only uncomfortable for a moment, and then he could literally feel the ache of a week trudging through heat and Hell slowly ebb out of his muscles and into the bubbly water. It was ridiculous and extravagant and exactly what he had been missing all these years spent pulling his hair out. Aside from the distant ache in his ankle, Harry was feeling pretty good. They'd successfully completed their mission, somehow made it out alive, and destroyed two Horcruxes to boot.

It would have been a lot better without the realisation that he was overdue at work the next day, but he supposed things could have been worse. At least he was _alive_ to go to work the next day.

He must have spent an hour there, just lying in the tub (which, in addition to sixteen different nozzles and jacuzzi-like jets, had charms to keep the water hot without him having to worry about it) before he actually got around to washing off. By the time he was done the water was black with dust, but quickly faded as the self-cleaning spells got to work. He shaved, too, having neglected it for a few days; he was getting uncomfortably itchy along the jaw. Climbing out of the tub he felt rejuvenated and very acutely hungry.

Someone had cleaned what had remained of his clothes while Harry bathed. He ignored the bathrobe and slipped back into them, since he hadn't exactly remembered to ask Draco to borrow some robes. He did root around looking for a shirt, though. Unsuccessful, he flopped back on the bed and waited for food to arrive.

He didn't have to wait long. Harry barely looked at it before shoving it in his mouth, while Nivens looked on with an expression of disapproval. Harry asked him if he would mind finding him a shirt and, looking thankful for something to do besides watch Harry inhale his painstakingly-prepared food, bowed low and vanished.

He returned by the time Harry had scraped his plate clean. Harry slipped the dark fabric over his head, smoothing it down – God, it was silk, just like the bed sheets, and Harry just wanted to curl up in himself and never move again.

He was aware of the elf still hovering by the edge of the bed so he rolled over, yawning. 'Is everything okay? Is Draco asleep?'

'Master is in his drawing room,' the elf said, looking terribly guilty, as if he were tattling on his master, even though he was obviously worried about him.

'Where's the drawing room again?'

'Nivens will show Mr Potter.'

The elf led him downstairs and left Harry standing alone at the door, likely to escape any sort of reprimand, though Harry honestly didn't think Draco would have the energy. Inside, he could see the hunched back of Draco's shoulders behind the intricately carved Italian sofa, blonde head held in his hands.

Harry stopped behind him, leaning his forearms over the top of the sofa. Draco took a long and rather shaky breath, the taut line of his shoulders flinching beneath a thin shirt.

'Can't sleep?'

Draco raised his head, but didn't look back at Harry. Instead he shrugged, causing the shirt to ride up under his arms a little, exposing a line of pale flesh at the waist. 'How the hell do you manage it?'

It was Harry's turn to shrug, but Draco couldn't see it. 'I dunno. I guess I just, I've always sort of had to, whether I wanted to or not.'

Draco sucked a long breath through his nose, sitting back and tilting his head towards the ceiling; the late-morning sun shining through the windows outlined him in gold, lending his skin some colour. His shoulder brushed Harry's forearm. His eyes were closed as Harry looked down on him, shadows deep under his eyes.

'Have you,' Draco started. He opened his eyes, saw Harry watching him, and tilted his head back down and looked away. 'You know,' he said after a moment, 'killed anyone?'

Harry didn't answer immediately; he knew that Draco meant intentionally – because he knew as well as Harry how many people Harry had got killed by accident, just for being anywhere near him.

'Yes,' Harry said eventually, 'once.'

'Is it the same?' Draco has his head angled sharply sideways; Harry could see the side of his mouth, but his eyes were hidden in the shadow of brow. 'As the – not the monsters, but the – '

'Worse.'

Harry didn't elaborate because that was the last thing in the world he ever wanted to talk about. He didn't know what Draco had seen before he'd plunged the basilisk tooth into the locket, but he had a good idea. Draco didn't seem particularly in the mood to discuss it, either; Harry didn't press him, because he understood. Some things were better left unsaid.

They sat and stood respectively in silence for some minutes. The sun had begun to rise above the windows, and Harry tried to remember the last time he'd had a decent amount of sleep. They'd been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, since before they'd wandered on to the magical reserve and into that cavern of shadows and death.

'You should use the Manor.'

'What?'

'You. All of you. I mean, it's not like my mother and I are putting the place to good use. It's protected by loads of old magic, and we could even set up a Fidelius Charm if you want – '

'Draco,' Harry interrupted, because Draco was babbling and Harry was exhausted. 'It's your _home_.'

'It's _empty_,' Draco said, and shuddered. 'I mean, I love it here. I grew up here, it's the only home I've ever known, but ever since – it's so damn _quiet_. _All the time_. I can't – I can't fucking stand it. I want to _do _something, and – I can do this, all right? I _can_ do this.'

He seemed mostly to be talking to himself so Harry let him, waiting until Draco lapsed back into tense silence. 'Okay,' he said after a moment. Draco looked up at him, surprised, and Harry felt too tired to smile but tried anyway. 'You're right. It'd help a lot. Since we lost use of Grimmauld Place, we've mostly been using Hogwarts.'

He didn't have to add that while he loved visiting the old castle – the only home _he'd_ ever known – he hated meeting there, because he knew what dangers they brought with them. Draco nodded, looking away, and seemed to relax a bit. After a few minutes of leaning there, with Draco's head bowed low and eyes cast down, Harry wondered if he'd actually fallen asleep.

'So,' Draco said, breaking the silence just as Harry's eyes had started to flutter closed. 'I guess we lived long enough to worry about it.'

It took a moment for Harry to realise what he was talking about. Draco's hands were restless, fidgeting, picking at his nails in his lap. Draco's head was still bowed, turned towards the rising sun; golden light chased the stands of his hair from root to tip, tickling the edge of his jaw.

Harry knew he should really think about this – what it would mean for him, but more importantly what it would mean to Draco, who hadn't had a real connection to anyone outside of his own mother. Harry knew enough about how messy and complicated it all was, no matter how casual the link – hell, Blaise had been the most complicated intimate relationship he'd ever had, and he remembered only too well how that had gone. And Blaise was one of the strongest people Harry knew, had to be, to undergo the strain of what Harry had asked of him to do (was _still_ doing) and something like heartache wouldn't break him down.

It wasn't that Harry saw Draco as weak or particularly fragile; if anything, Harry had been surprised at the level of resolve he'd displayed over the past few weeks. But putting your life on the line protecting someone you loved was a different sort of strength than putting your heart on the line for someone you might.

Harry had taken what he could get the past few years, and after the fiasco with Blaise, Harry had realised that he was only fooling himself if he thought that could be enough. The sex had helped, but that was only a part of it – he needed someone he could rely on to be there through it all, be there through the happiness and the madness and the terror, to be there to stop him when he went too far, to be there when the entire world was falling down around their ears and his eyes betrayed what lay in wait inside.

He needed someone that would march into it with him, terrified and unsure and shaking, but holding on to his hand just the same.

To hell with it, he thought. Besides, chances were that if this blew up in Harry's face, he wouldn't be alive to suffer the guilt for very long, anyway.

Draco shivered as Harry leaned in, inhaling the scent of his hair, nose trailing the outer edge of his ear hidden beneath the strands. Draco held himself tense, as if poised to flee, as Harry's breath mingled with his hair and ghosted down his neck. His hair mostly smelled like citrus, probably from whatever shampoo he'd used to clean the dust out of his hair, but the scent of the savannah still clung to his skin; the smell of the sun and the open air and wilderness.

Harry tilted his head down, lips brushing Draco's earlobe and the junction of his jaw. Draco's eyes were still closed, and whatever argument he seemed to be having inside his head came to an abrupt halt as he reached up with one hand, circled it around the back of Harry's neck, and pulled him sharply down into a kiss.

Pain lanced across Harry's chest as it dug into the top of the sofa. He didn't care. Draco's mouth was hot and open for him, tongue coaxing his own in – shyly at first, until Harry's teeth snagged his bottom lip and suddenly he was tumbling, sharp wood scraping angry trails down his chest through his silk shirt as Draco hauled him over the back of the sofa by his collar.

The pain was a distant memory by the time Harry caught his breath and found himself on top of Draco, waist between his legs and hands twisted tightly in his hair. He wondered briefly if this rough treatment was a gay thing, or maybe just a Slytherin thing – and then Draco pulled away from his mouth, lips leaving a wet trail over Harry's chin and under his jaw, and then _teeth_ were dragging down the side of his neck and Harry stopped thinking about anything else entirely.

Aside from their hands and their mouths (and, God, those rough, uneven noises Draco was making), they lay almost entirely still. It was strange to be this aroused emotionally, wanting so much more, when the rest of him – certain bits between his legs, specifically – were just too utterly spent to do anything about it. His mind was on fire and, Hell, he wanted to so fucking badly, but the rest of him was – well, limp with exhaustion. Harry slowed the kiss, tasting Draco's tongue with long, fluid strokes, panting heavily into his open mouth, lips slick with saliva. Draco made a contended noise deep in his throat, drawing back Harry's bottom lip before ducking his head lower, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

'Sorry,' Harry said automatically, then winced at how stupid it sounded. 'I'm just – '

'Tired,' Draco agreed, still panting into Harry's neck. His voice was a strange, deep octave and probably the hottest thing Harry'd ever heard in his life and, God damn it, why was he so fucking exhausted?

Well, sure, they'd spent a week tracking across the savannah, jungle and plains, fought off a myriad of things that intended to kill them, getting broken and bloody in the process, but _fuck_. Harry missed the time when, at sixteen, he could go near three days without sleep without so much as a headache.

There wasn't really any room to lie down side-by-side. Apparently Italian furniture wasn't often used as a make-shift futon, so Harry peeled himself away, licking his lips, and looked around for something to serve as a pillow. Draco muttered a spell and wriggled backwards as the magic took effect, extending a chaise out of the right side of the sofa, giving it an overall L-shape. Harry gave up looking and just Summoned a pillow from Draco's bedroom upstairs. When it arrived, he tossed it to Draco, and flopped back down on the sofa, kicking off his shoes and collapsing with a grateful grunt.

Harry rolled onto his stomach, left arm caught beneath his chest and dangling off the edge of the sofa. Draco curled in a little, and reached up to pull Harry's glasses off, clasping them carefully in his fist; his hands tucked themselves in the crevice of Harry's neck, fingers idly tracing the skin there. Harry reached out with his right arm, splaying his fingers along Draco's cheek, tangling his fingers in the wayward strands of platinum hair there; Draco's eyes closed at the touch, and he nuzzled in closer, his nose brushing Harry's cheek.

The pillow smelled like Draco; Draco, stormy eyes half-closed with a ghost of a smile on red, swollen lips, smelled like Draco. Harry's face probably smelled like Draco. He inhaled deeply through his nose and held it, letting the smell fill him up, spread from his lungs to the base of his skull and settling somewhere deep in his stomach.

Harry was asleep before the breath rushed out of him.

: : :

The moment the sun dipped below the African horizon, the air shivered.

A large portion of the jungle bore evidence to a great calamity: trees had been uprooted, split in half or gouged beyond recovery. The undergrowth was in tatters, soft green plants shredded and tossed aside to reveal deep, brown peat that was soaked in blood. A great battle had been fought here; the winner had left the loser coiled between the trees, green scales slashed with red. Disease hung thick in the air.

_They turned their heads towards the way they had come; the Scent had doubled back on them in the light, retracing its steps. Did it think to fool them so easily? They followed it hungrily; it was only hours old, so fresh they could smell the beating heart of their prey on the wind._

_At the edge of the jungle the Scent vanished. In its place, a much cruder trail of manufactured magic, the trail of whatever their prey had used to evade them. It was no matter. They did not care for distance, for they did not tire. They congregated on the spot, letting the Scent fill them, and slowly slunk down through the earth, through planes that made distance not matter – following, always tracking the Scent._

_They followed it to a new place, a place that smelled of sickness and death, and then away again to another, much closer – dark woods stretched out beyond, not unlike the dark jungle they had left. Before them stood black gates, shimmering with magic, guarded by two stone behemoths that sniffed curiously at the air, sensing a change and searching for danger._

_The black gates would not hold them long. They were so very, very close._

: : :

Harry's flat was dark and empty. Hermione did a quick sweep of the place anyway, just to be sure. This was _infuriating_. Ron had wanted to instantly Apparate back to Ethiopia before Hermione convinced him the more logical route would be to check with St Mungo's before teleporting half a hemisphere away. Ron had grudgingly agreed and, upon checking in with the Emergency Arrivals nurse, found that Bill _had_ in fact used his Portkey earlier that day.

Was he all right? Sure, aside from some superficial bumps and scrapes – was he still here? No, no, he'd gone and got himself another Portkey back to his work site about an hour ago. Did he have anyone with him? Well, yes, two other gentlemen, but they refused to be seen, and honestly it'd been rather a bother, as those Portkeys were only supposed to be used in emergencies – Hermione had tuned the woman out at that point. All right, so apparently Bill had managed to track Harry down and they'd – well, she didn't know, did she, because apparently men had no idea how to use a _Floo_.

'He's not here,' Ron said unnecessarily.

'There's only so many places he can be,' Hermione said reasonably.

'Maybe he went back to number twelve,' Ron said, nodding to himself. 'If he found a Horcrux, he'd want it to be somewhere safe.'

Since Snape still had access to their headquarters, though, number twelve wasn't exactly _safe_. 'We should check the Manor.'

'Why'd they go to the Manor? There's nothing there.'

Well, there was another Horcrux and all of Draco's things, but still, Ron had a point – Narcissa was still at the Palazzo, and Hermione couldn't imagine Draco wanting to return to an empty estate. And even if they'd found another Horcrux, with no way to actually destroy it, there was no point in keeping them both at one place.

'All right,' she said, heading towards the door, 'we'll check Grimmauld Place first, then.'

The echo of the crack from their Disapparition had just barely faded when the owl fluttered down to the windowsill. He peered hopefully inside, large eyes slowly scanning the dark apartment. With a rather indignant ruffle of feathers, he took flight once more.

: : :

_pull myself a little closer, _  
_I could feel your body breathe _  
_hear the pulsing of my heartbeat _  
_rhyming rhythms endlessly_

: : :

When Draco woke up, his right arm was numb to the shoulder.

He flexed his fingers and winced at the pins and pricks that shot down his arm. Opening a bleary eye, his vision was obscured by a copse of wild black hair. Orange and gold light danced among the thicket, chasing each other up and down strands – glancing down the length of the settee, Draco could see the house-elves had lit candles as the room darkened. Outside, the eastern sky was a deep sapphire with a sprinkle of diamond dust already peeking over the horizon.

They'd finally given into exhaustion sometime shortly after noon, and if it was almost sunset, that meant he'd got at least six solid hours. Not nearly enough. Draco was sorely tempted to shift his arm out from under Harry's head and go right back to sleep.

Oh, right – _that's_ what that hash of hair was.

Draco took a moment to appreciate a sleeping Harry Potter. He'd done it once before, that time after they'd fought, drunk on power and old grudges. That time, Harry had looked like being asleep was a painful experience, a battle all on its own, and he was just determined to make it back to consciousness. Now, though, freshly clean and shaven, utterly exhausted to the point of skipping a shag in favour of a kip, he seemed a lot softer around the edges. There were shadows under his bare eyes, something normally hidden by his glasses; long lashes laid flush against sun-kissed skin, getting tangled in his unruly fringe. There were faint creases in his forehead and his nose that, Draco knew, were the beginnings of worry lines that would forever tell of what he'd been through.

Draco focussed on keeping his right hand where it was – tucked under Harry's head like a pillow, breath softly ghosting Draco's wrist and shooting lines of white-hot pleasure down his chest – while sliding his backside off the sofa. The floor was unyielding hardwood and Draco winced as he shifted stiff limbs closer to the sofa, careful not to disturb Harry's slumber.

He was wearing one of Draco's shirts – a button-down, short-sleeved and tight over his thicker shoulders – and it had ridden up around his hips and under his arms. Draco could see the valley his spine created as it dipped low, disappearing under his jeans. Dark hair laced his forearms but his back was smooth, tanned and wound tight under the silk. Draco ran an experimental hand over his shoulder, sliding between the shoulder blades and down the line of his back; Harry made a happy little noise into his hand, not quite a moan, and shifted under Draco's fingers. Emboldened, Draco tried again, fingers pressing deeper, spreading out and exploring the taut muscle encasing his ribs, dipping into the softer, more tender flesh at the side of his waist.

That seemed to pull Harry from sleep. The breath on his wrist changed, becoming heavier and more irregular. Harry turned his head down to look at Draco, sitting on the floor with his hand tracing patterns along his back. He didn't ask Draco what he was doing, but pushed himself up just enough to roll over onto his back, Draco's hand falling away. Since Harry was no longer using his right hand as a pillow, Draco flexed his fingers and shifted, bringing himself closer to the couch, tucking his elbow beneath Harry's head before he could lie back down, hand curled around Harry's neck, fingers dipping just inside his collar.

Harry reached up with his right hand and held on to Draco, thumb and index finger locking around Draco's wrist. He put his glasses on with his left hand, blinking as Draco came into focus, but still didn't speak. He just looked at Draco, those green eyes dark and unreadable, and then looked at Draco's left hand, fallen to the side, and Draco understood; he was being given permission to explore, to touch and feel and figure out what the hell was going on – Harry wouldn't interrupt him.

Harry _was_ watching him, though. It sent a little thrill down Draco's back that curled up happily in his groin, which had apparently got enough rest after all.

Draco slid his left hand back up Harry's side, over his stomach, rising and falling in rhythm with his diaphragm. He followed the line of his chest up, spreading fingers across his breastbone, feeling the thick layer of muscle beneath his fingers hot beneath the silken material of his shirt. Draco's nails snagged on the buttons as he curled his fingers, dragging them down again, past his stomach and lower, feeling the hitch in Harry's breathing as he explored his navel. Turning over had hiked the hem of the shirt up further, green silk giving way to hot flesh, and Draco explored the dark trail of hair there, turning his hand so that his fingertips brushed the top of Harry's jeans.

Harry was holding his breath; Draco hadn't noticed until his hand continued down, smoothing the creases in the denim along Harry's hip, and the breath came pouring out of him in one, long rush. His eyes fluttered closed, and the hand on Draco's wrist tightened.

Apparently that part of Harry had got enough rest, too.

Draco took his time. It was, technically, his first time really doing this. He'd messed about with Blaise a few times in the Prefects' bathroom, in various states of undress (and Blaise usually in the full nude, because the man was a tramp), but it had been just groping and rutting and Draco had always chickened out when Blaise tried to go a little further, panic filling his throat with acid and his stomach twisting in on itself. Draco's hand paused as the memories brought the unease flooding back, Snitches fluttering around in his abdomen, but Draco closed his eyes and fought back. No, not this time. Blaise was vulgar and frustrated and often rather cruel, but Harry wasn't like that. He could take this as far – or not – as he was willing to go, knowing Harry wouldn't begrudge him either way.

He kept his eyes closed as he let his hand wander, flat against Harry's hip, the well-worn denim soft against his palm. He felt his way along Harry's thigh, which – even when flopped bonelessly across the couch – was firm and warm, thick with muscle that hardened into bone as he reached the knee. Curling his fingers, Draco ran his palm back up the inside of Harry's thigh, feeling every shiver, every tremor under his touch. And there, at the apex, where the jeans loosened up and the juncture of Harry's legs was hidden in darkness, the flesh became softer and then suddenly harder.

Harry let out a long, slow hiss.

Draco opened his eye and suppressed a chuckle at the pure absurdity of it. If, a month ago, someone had told Draco he'd be feeling up Harry bloody Potter on a sofa in his drawing room, he would have laughed them to scorn.

He cupped his fingers around the hot muscle and gave a little squeeze, the slightest amount of pressure, drawing his fingers back down the length and up again. He brushed the pad of his thumb under the head in a slow circle, relishing in the little twitch that it caused.

'Draco.'

Draco's eyes flickered to Harry's; his face and neck were flushed, mouth half-open and heavy-lidded, yellow-green eyes staring at Draco's hand. Interesting.

'Hm?' Draco hummed noncommittally, tracing a single digit back down. Harry ground his teeth.

'Ten seconds,' Harry hissed through his teeth.

'Ten seconds?' Draco echoed, turning his eyes back to the prize. Growing bolder, he used the heel of his hand this time, smirking a little as the muscles in Harry's abdomen tightened, sharp lines in his hips standing out. Draco felt a hot flash follow the scar down his neck and chest to his groin, his own jumping in anticipation. The panic from a moment ago was gone, replaced with sheer _want_.

'Five,' Harry said, and, when Draco shot him a glance, he was taking off his glasses and carefully folding them closed with his teeth.

'The suspense is killing me, Potter,' Draco drawled, taking a tighter grip. Merlin, he could _feel_ the blood pulsing. 'Five seconds until – '

Harry tossed his glasses casually over his shoulder and jumped him.

The table beside the couch was unceremoniously shoved aside with an echoing _screech_ that left long gouges in the floor. Harry caught Draco's head before it could smack into the floor, hissing into Draco's mouth as his elbows took the damage instead, hips settling hot and heavy in between the blonde's legs. Draco could _feel_ the magic pouring out of Harry, washing over his skin and leaving it tingling, burning for more, wanting to drown himself in it. White-hot jolts of electricity lanced down his chest, nearly splitting him in half with pleasure.

Draco couldn't breathe – partially due to Harry investigating his tonsils, but largely due to the fact that the Chosen One was bloody heavy. Draco bit down hard on Harry's bottom lip, using the distraction (Harry cursed, hot breath expelling over Draco's chin) to hook a knee over Harry's hip and roll him.

This didn't exactly work out as planned; Draco rolled up right into the ornately curved – and therefore incredible _sharp_ – edge of the coffee table, cursing as bright spots erupted in his vision. The pain in his temple was quickly set aside to collect interest when Harry, given free use of his hands, trailed his fingers down Draco's chest, following the line of the scar there.

The first time Harry had tried that, it had hurt like hell. Draco had been dreading this, wondering if he'd never be free of the pain, but Harry's touch just left a tingly, hyper-sensitive trail in their wake. Then Draco remembered that the first time they hadn't only been drunk, but Harry'd been furious (as well as furiously turned on), and something clicked into place.

When Draco pulled back Harry's hands jumped away, and Draco saw the yellow invading his eyes flicker. 'Sorry, I – '

Draco braced both hands on either side of Harry's head, leaned down and swallowed his apologies. Hands tightened on his hips, pulling him down harder, rising to meet him. Draco rolled his hips experimentally, moaning into the kiss at the sudden rush of pleasure it caused; Harry's hands slipped around to his backside, grabbing at his arse and squeezing hard enough to bruise.

Harry was saying something, wet mouth trailing hotly down his neck. It took Draco a second (the hip-rolling was really, very terribly distracting) to realise that the reason he couldn't understand him was because he was _hissing_, muttering sibilant words against Draco's throat, teeth grazing and tongue slicking and tasting. Draco didn't know whether he was more terrified or turned on. Probably a little of both. Harry's hands dropped lower, cupping Draco through his trousers; his movements were hectic but confident, strokes sure and steady and driving Draco absolutely wild.

They were both slick with sweat, clothes clinging to them uncomfortably, and Draco had never wanted to be naked so badly in his life.

Harry must have sensed weakness, noticed the distraction, because Draco suddenly felt himself rolling back towards the couch. He kept the movement going, and they ended up in a slick tangle of limbs with Harry's back against the couch and Draco straddling his lap. Harry grunted as the wooden trim connected with his lower back, hands tightening on Draco's hips and biting down hard on the junction of Draco's neck and shoulder.

_Sweet sodding Merlin's lacy pants_, Draco cursed in his head. He was going to blow his bloody wad fully clothed if they kept this up.

Summoning a massive amount of self-control, Draco placed both hands on Harry's shoulders and pushed them apart. Harry went easily, and Draco wished he hadn't, because – fucking hell – Harry's head lolled back against the cushions, hair splayed in every direction except flat, red mouth open and panting, and the barest flicker of yellow-green eyes watching him under heavy lashes.

'You know, there's like,' Draco panted, 'over a dozen beds upstairs just waiting to be defiled.'

'If you want,' Harry whispered, hisses spilling over his words, causing Draco to shiver. 'I mean, it's – it's up to you, I – _God_, I can't. I can't think when you've got your mouth open like that.'

Draco closed his mouth and swallowed, stomach tightening in on itself. 'Let's just,' he said eventually, when Harry closed his eyes and laid his head back. 'Slow down a bit, yeah?'

Harry opened his eyes and looked at him for a minute, then two, until Draco started to fidget. He was pitching a bloody tent and Harry was hard against his hip through the maddening layers of clothes they still had on for some stupid reason, and Harry was just looking at him, as if trying to make up his mind. Merlin, if he was having second thoughts now, after all this, Draco was going to kill him.

Harry nodded, seeming to come to whatever conclusion had been evading him. He released Draco's hips and the blood rushed back, filling in the bruises that would surely make themselves known in a few hours. Instead, Harry ran his hands up Draco's chest, careful not to touch the scar through his shirt.

Draco wanted to tell him it was okay, that – that it really only hurt when Harry was hurting, or angry, or lost to himself in his nightmares. Even hidden away at the Manor for four years, Draco had felt every pang of anger, stab of pain and slice of terror Harry had suffered over the years without even realising what it was. He couldn't find the words, and his eyes found the scar on Harry's forehead, a pink slash of lightning, a tiny self-portrait of the one on Draco's chest, cutting down across his eyebrow.

Draco leaned forward and kissed it; feeling Harry still beneath him but not pulling away, Draco ran his tongue along it, from bottom to top. Harry shuddered under him, hands clutching Draco's upper arms and then pulling in, latching onto his collar, fingers fumbling with the top button. Draco buried himself in the mop of black hair, fingers tying themselves in knots with the strands, tugging along with him.

Halfway down, Harry ran out of patience. 'Why,' he growled against the hollow of Draco's throat, 'why are you wearing so _many_. _Fucking. Clothes?_'

With one final, violent tug he sent buttons flying, leaving Draco's chest bare, flushed pink and heaving. Harry didn't even bother tugging the offending article off Draco's shoulders, just went to work right away, mouth trailing wetly down his chest, leaving red welts in his wake whenever teeth flashed against skin. He followed the line of the scar, not touching, but occasionally his tongue would brush the edge or his breath would wash over it and Draco would make a noise that was entirely undignified and twist in his lap, trying to get closer and further away all at once.

Draco stopped Harry with a hand to his chest before he leaned back in, risking the displeasure in those yellow-green eyes, because Draco decided he'd, too, had enough of all these _sodding clothes_. Gripping the bottom of Harry's shirt, he tugged up – Harry lifted his arms over his head and twisted, pulling himself free while Draco tried to preserve the image of his naked chest, muscles pulled taut and slick with sweat, into his mind's eye forever.

Harry's hair went wild when pulled free of the collar, fringe sticking to his flushed face but otherwise independent of gravity. Draco rose up on his knees and threaded his fingers into it, immediately getting tangled and twisting, tugging, trying to get Harry _closer closer closer_ because he could never be close enough. Draco wanted to fold himself inside Harry, wriggle in the little cracks and hold him together and never stop feeling that warmth.

Draco was yanked back to reality with the feel of teeth grazing his navel. 'Oh, _fuck_,' he ground out, his voice sounding a long way off. He yanked on Harry's scalp and felt Harry's tongue slick the gossamer hairs above his groin and follow them lower; Draco pushed Harry's head down and moaned like a whore when Harry's lips enveloped him through the fabric of his trousers.

'Sonofabitch,' Harry bit out, burying his nose in Draco's hip.

Draco twisted in his grip, cursing. 'Come _on_.'

'Christ,' Harry said, his fingers straining to pull Draco's trousers off. 'God, I'm – '

The rest of his words trailed off into incoherent hissing, lost to Draco, who managed after a moment of heavy panting: 'What?'

_'Christ_,' Harry said again, voice hoarse. He tilted his head up, pulling against the hands Draco tightened in his hair. His eyes were a wild, golden hazel and he held Draco's gaze as he scraped his teeth up Draco's length. '_I said_, I am going to fuck you through the floor.'

That sounded like a splendid plan to Draco who, somewhere behind the fog of lust, was extremely glad he hadn't bothered to put anything on under his trousers – Draco's eyes rolled back into his head as Harry jerked his waistband down just enough to swipe his tongue inside. 'Fuck – _Harry_ – '

The air of the room spat and sizzled, magic surging around them like the sudden touchdown of a tornado. Draco's entire world narrowed down to a point, down to the feel of Harry's mouth on him, and every other need or want or worry in the world could fuck off for all he cared.

It was why Draco couldn't feel the burn of the ring on his chest, couldn't sense the change in the room around him – couldn't hear the stone dragons that guarded the gates roar, didn't notice the _snap_ of a house-elf appearing in the room, didn't care that the doors slammed open out of sight behind the couch, seemingly of their own accord. It was why he thought the hairs raising on the back of his neck was a reaction to _Harry_, to the hands fumbling with the button of Draco's trousers, _tugging tugging tugging_, to the long, hot lick up the length of Draco's dick through his trousers, to the teeth scraping the head.

Harry must have heard the shouting, because suddenly he started to rise, scrambling, half-lifting Draco with him. Draco didn't know why they were standing, didn't care who was shouting; he couldn't hear a sound over the magic roaring in his ears. Over Harry's shoulder he could see Hermione and Ron and he thought that he must be hallucinating, and looked to Harry for reassurance.

But when Draco looked in Harry's eyes, pools of deep green devoid of serpentine yellow, and saw the fear there, a wave of icy terror crashed over him, too late.

He heard hissing behind him and turned; there, two from the smooth wood of the floor and one from the thick carpet by the mantlepiece, they rose up like domestic nightmares. They were each the size of a horse, lupine in body with golden eyes, and long, slender tails lashing behind them like whips.

All three pairs of eyes found Draco and, without warning or ceremony, lunged as one.

: : :

The scrunts were more horrifying than Hermione could have ever imagined.

The massive spectres had risen out of the woodwork, just like the research had said; there had been no time to do anything, not even to cast a spell – they simply appeared and lunged, converging on Harry and Draco in a cyclone of madness.

She heard Ron shout a long way off – she was pretty sure she screamed, but the sound was lost in the sibilant snarls that ended in a single, massive thunderclap.

Where Harry and Draco had been standing a heartbeat ago, Harry now stood alone.

Something small and silver tinkled to the floor at his feet.

It had taken the better part of an hour to calm Harry down long enough to explain – what they had learned, how Ron had figured it out, what exactly the beasts were – and that they had instinctively thought that Harry was the target. It wouldn't have made a difference either way, Hermione tried to tell him. If the beasts had wanted him, they would have taken him.

But apparently they'd wanted Draco instead.

It didn't help that they'd apparently barged into the middle of something – well, Hermione had a fair idea of what, considering their state of undress and the welt on Harry's neck – and Ron, too, kept shooting furtive looks at Harry, unable to voice the question right then, because once Hermione had explained what they'd learned about the scrunts, Harry had stopped listening to either of them.

Harry burst through the doors of the Auror Headquarters, Ron and Hermione hot on his heels. Hermione wanted to reach out, to try and make him see reason – that they had to stop and _think_, had to figure this out before they went charging in, to learn what they were up against – but Ron, sensing her intentions, squeezed her hand in his and firmly shook his head.

The door to the office nearly flew off its hinges as Harry flung it open; Kingsley Shacklebolt, chopsticks laden with take-away Thai food poised halfway in his open mouth, saw the look on Harry's face and calmly put his food aside before standing. Beside him, Arthur Weasley was already on his feet, looking surprised to see them back.

'Harry? What's wrong? Is everyone all right?' Arthur demanded, voice rising with every word. Hermione pulled Ron into the room so his father could see him, and Arthur visibly sagged.

'How quickly can you get everyone together?' Harry demanded of Kingsley.

'Everyone?' Kingsley asked, raising his brows. Harry just looked at him, gaze unflinching. 'Couple of hours, if it's important.'

'Make it an hour,' Harry ordered, and Kingsley just nodded; he may have been Harry's senior by twenty-some odd years, but _nobody_ argued with Harry when his eyes looked like that. 'We're meeting at the Manor. Arthur, you're with me.'

'_Malfoy_ Manor?' Kingsley asked, incredulous, but Harry was already out the door and halfway down the aisle of cubicles outside. Arthur raised his eyebrows at Hermione, but followed without argument.

Harry sorted through the papers piled on his desk quickly, the party of three hovering nervously behind him. As worried as she was, Hermione was feeling a little better; Harry obviously had a plan. They might be crazy and borderline suicidal, but when all else failed, Harry's plans _worked_.

'Ron,' he said, without turning around. Ron immediately stepped up to his side, always ready for anything, but frowned when Harry just handed him a piece of parchment. 'Owl this off, please. Right now.'

'Right,' Ron said, teetering for a moment. 'Er. Right. Owling. Now.' And fled.

'All right,' Harry said, turning around. His voice echoed through the office, loud and deadly calm. What little noise had begun to creep back after his extravagant entry quickly died down again. 'I need every report of Death Eater activity in the past twelve hours with _any_ shred of credibility on my desk, _immediately_. Collins, I want you on Floos; Harris, Smith, dispatch; Robinson, get me a list of every Death Eater in holding waiting on the Wizengamot. The rest of you, if you have got _any_ leads in the past twenty-four hours, I want to know – '

Harry paused as he surveyed the room; the moment he'd started shouting orders, everyone in the office had just stared at him, a few with their mouths open. Some of them were three times his age and had been on the force since before he was born. Standing at the back of the room, head peeking out of his office at the ruckus, Robards had been watching the scene with ever-increasing incredulity.

Harry narrowed his yellow-green eyes, voice sharp with blood-chilling determination. '_Understood?_'

There was a flurry of activity as people nodded and got to work, and Harry swept right past Hermione and back towards the doors. She nearly collided with Robards as she moved to follow; the man ignored her, nearly jogging to catch up with Harry.

'What the hell has got into you?' Robards looked at a loss. He staggered after Harry, furious and confused, and grabbed his elbow before Hermione could stop him. 'Who the hell do you think you are, Potter? You can't just hijack the department for your personal vendetta!'

Harry whirled around so quickly Robards backpedalled; the gaze Harry fixed on him nailed the smaller man to the floor as he snarled: '_Try and stop me_.'

: : :

When Draco came to, it was to complete and utter darkness.

The cold came on suddenly as we woke, the air unnaturally frigid like the inside of an icebox. He was lying on the floor. He did not move, and did his best to keep his breathing pattern the same – short, calm little intakes of breath, not wanting to reveal to anything possibly watching that he'd woken. He took a quick inventory of his body; little twitches confirmed that, despite all odds, he seemed to have arrived intact. There wasn't even any pain, which had to be wrong. Maybe he _was_ dead...

Pain lanced down his chest, so suddenly and deep he nearly screamed. Anger and panic flooded in and filled him, and somehow knowing how Harry was feeling made it that much worse.

Draco lay there in the darkness, unmoving, for what felt like hours. Every time he got the courage to move, he would hear something – or his mind would convince him he'd heard something – and then he'd continue to ignore the cold stiffness in his limbs and lie still. He realised with some annoyance that, after Harry had broken his wand to brew an antidote to the nundu's venomous breath, he'd neglected to grab his old one. Wonderful; lost alone in the dark _and_ unarmed.

Draco spent the next few minutes taking a mental tally of events that had landed him there, wherever he was. They'd got home in one piece, and Apparated back to the Manor. They'd disposed of the Horcruxes, washed, snogged, slept – and Draco had very nearly ended up with Harry's mouth and hands in his trousers. And then –

Draco inhaled sharply, mind filled with white teeth and golden eyes. Something to his left let out a low, gravelly snarl.

_Don't move don't move don't move – _

Light suddenly filled the chamber. Draco scrambled to his knees and slammed his back against the nearest wall, as far away as possible from the creatures watching him from the other side of the cell. There were only two this time instead of three and, as the light washed over them, their scaly fur turned grey to match the stone as they slowly sank out of sight into the floor.

Draco became acutely aware of the fact that he'd stopped breathing; the air rushed in and out of his lungs in great gulps as the creatures vanished and the light moved inside the chamber, revealing a dark-robed figure.

'Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to drop in.'

Somehow, this was worse. Draco would have rather been locked alone in the dark with the beasts again.

The figure threw back its hood; Theodore Nott grinned down at him and Draco flinched. A long, silver scar ran down over his left eye – the eye itself was scarred, opaque and blind. 'How've you been, Draco? Mum doing well?' Theodore's good eye sized him up, taking in the torn shirt and the scar decorating his chest, and smirked. 'Well, not for long, I imagine,' Theodore admitted, looking wistful. 'That is, if Yaxley's not used her all up.'

Theodore's hands were empty, but Draco knew better than to assume he'd get the jump on him. Fucker always had a wand stashed somewhere and, failing that, a knife. 'If you so much as _breathe_ on my mother,' Draco said, raising his eyes to meet Theodore's, 'I will spend _years_ killing you.'

'Now _that's_ the spirit! This is going to be _so_ much fun.' Theodore looked gleeful, which never boded well for anyone besides Theodore. 'But I'd really worry more about my own arse, if I were you.'

: : :

_to be continued_

* * *

**Post A/N**: I've been getting some unhappy feedback about how this story should not be tagged as complete, so I just wanted to leave a note explaining there is a good reason for it: the continuance to this story takes place after a bit of an interlude, and I always planned to make the break here. _This_ part of the story _is_ complete - whether or not you agree I should tag it as complete or not is your opinion, and I'm sorry if it's upset you. That said, take care to remember that many _published_ works end short of completion and/or with cliffhangers. This is no different.

The next installment is coming soon, and this note will be updated when that happens. Thanks for reading!


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